


Brittle Flower, Painted Blue

by deesaster



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (like a lot of 'em), Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst galore, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Rewrite, Dwarven ones, Feelings, Flowers, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hanahaki AU, Hanahaki Disease, Hints of Self-Sacrifice, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Blood, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Supportive dwarves, hanahaki
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-06-08 07:23:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15238332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deesaster/pseuds/deesaster
Summary: Bilbo supposes it’s been there from the very start, perhaps since that fateful night when he heard that deep voice singing for the first time, a harrowing song about a home lost to dragon fire that echoed through the halls of Bag End. He doesn’t know for sure, it might as well have happened gradually, as he’d spent time in the King’s presence in those first weeks of travel.But he’s certain of one thing, Bilbo realises as he stares at the crinkled, blood-stained petals of the blue iris he’d just coughed up—he’s going to die for Thorin Oakenshield, and it won’t matter if it’s because of dragon fire or the love that makes deadly flowers grow in his lungs.In which the Hanahaki Disease, known as the flower sickness, occurs in lovestruck Hobbits whose affections will never be reciprocated. Or so they would believe.





	1. The First Petal

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve only recently found out about this trope and one of the first thoughts that had struck me was that this is indubitably a trope that would work so fucking well with Bagginshield. So, imagine my surprise when I found out that there are NO Bagginshield fics revolving around the Hanahaki Disease. Not a single one. If there are some out there, my apologies, but the search doesn't come up with anything. It is outrageous. Naturally, I had to write one. Here goes. I hope you enjoy it and please don’t hesitate to leave kudos and comment if you’d like <3
> 
> Other notes: This was written with [this timeline](https://ece.uwaterloo.ca/~dwharder/Personal/Hobbit/) of the book plot in mind, but it is based mainly on what is shown in the extended edition of the three movies. Also, this work is not beta-ed, and the author is not a native speaker of English.

It rains a lot in the first few weeks of the journey, and the torrents don’t compare to the mild spring showers that Bilbo used to look forward to back in the Shire. Since he’s not accustomed to such weather, he thinks nothing of the sporadic coughing he develops, believing that it’s just a result of the unpleasant weather. He tells himself he’ll toughen up, that it will soon fade, as summer sets in and he gets used to the harshness of the road.

No such thing happens. His state slowly deteriorates day by day, and the coughing begins to trouble his breathing. There is now a constant pain in his chest, bearable, but not unnoticeable. He doesn’t want the Dwarves to think he’s weak and sickly, so he tries to abstain from actually coughing out loud, which hurts and exerts him even more.

He already doesn’t have their approval. He can tell that the Dwarves make jokes on his behalf when they think he can’t hear them, and it feels as though pain in his chest worsens every single time Thorin shoots him disdainful looks. Luckily that doesn’t happen very often, because the King rarely pays him any mind. Which, in Bilbo’s books, is just as rude and hurtful. He starts to regret leaving Bag End, and as a result, his homesickness aggravates his health as well.

Only Gandalf glances at him worriedly from time to time, squinting and moving his jaw to the side, as though he thoughtfully considers something. He’s yet to mention something, and Bilbo is grateful that no word had been spoken toward him about his feebleness. He wishes and prays that the coughing will eventually go away on its own and that no one else will notice.

The first petal crawls its way out of his throat just as the Company’s journey to Erebor hits its one-month mark.

It’s the middle of the night when it happens, after everyone had settled into their bedrolls, Bilbo included. Only Thorin stands at the edge of their camp with his back turned, as he’d taken first watch, and Bilbo can’t seem to take his eyes off the vague shape of his broad shoulders, the majestic stance of an outline that blends in with the darkness of the moonless night. He’s on the verge of falling asleep, Thorin’s silhouette starting to blur as his eyelids start to droop, when he feels the fit coming.

He raises himself up on one elbow quickly, and the opposite hand flies to his mouth to stifle the noise, so he wouldn’t wake anyone up. It lasts longer than usual, and for the first time, he has the feeling that his coughs are caused by something that is lodged in his throat. Soon enough, he senses that the palm that he had pushed against his mouth is wet and that there is something coming up his throat that he needs to spit out.

Several painful seconds later, when he takes the palm away from his mouth and tilts it so that the firelight shines upon it at a favourable angle, he’s met with the sight of blood. What shocks him even more is the small peculiar object that had also been tainted by the blood, and so it had stuck to the skin of his palm.

It’s a petal, he realizes, and dread washes over him in a cold wave that stills his insides.

In the poor light, he can’t quite identify the flower of provenience, but he can discern its colour. A deep and vivid royal blue. He traces the petal tentatively with a trembling tip of his finger. Its surface is wrinkled, but it still feels smooth to the touch. The pad of his finger gathers the few droplets of blood that had clung to the petal.

“Master Boggins, are you alright?” a somewhat concerned Kíli asks him, whose bedroll is closest to Bilbo’s.

In that moment, he’s glad that he is used to setting his bedroll a bit further from the Dwarves, for the sake of the modicum of privacy he tries to maintain. Thankfully, his body blocks the view of his blood-stained palm.

Bilbo doesn’t even have the strength to correct the pronunciation of his name, for the umpteenth time in the past month. He clears his throat as silently as he can, ignoring the tang of blood left in his mouth. “Yes, Master Kíli. Go to sleep,” he encourages the young Dwarf with a weak voice.

He wipes his palm on his already dirty trousers, even though the act disgusts him, but he decides to keep the frail petal. He places it with the utmost care in the pocket of his waistcoat.

He settles into his bedroll again, feeling shaken. His lungs still constrict in pain after the fit, and his throat feels rough. Embracing his restlessness and knowing all too well that he probably won’t get any sleep tonight, he rests his eyes again upon the shape of Thorin Oakenshield’s body.

He frowns, because is certain that Thorin had been slightly further away from the camp than he is now and that his position had changed. But he doesn’t want to believe anything his addled mind might feed him now.

The next morning, after he quickly packs his bedroll, he allows himself a small moment before mounting his pony, and he discreetly pulls out the petal out of his pocket, so he can study it in the bright morning light.

It seems it had come from a blue iris. He’s always likes irises. His chest fills with fondness, and suddenly he feels as though the petal resting in his palm is the most precious thing he’s ever held.

In the dawn light, the colour is even more vivid. The particular shade of blue reminds him of  _something_  and it takes him a fraction of a second before he makes the association. Dizziness takes over him and he has to steady himself by clinging to the saddle of his pony. Another coughing fit starts, and, a minute later, another petal joins the one he already has in his hand.

With heaving lungs and wide eyes, he flicks them away, watching them as they fall with slow twirls into the dewy grass. If this is what he thinks, there are many more to come, so there is no point in hoarding them.

That day, he does his best to avoid meeting the eyes of a certain Dwarf.


	2. Tuberoses, Carnations, and Irises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You must be aware that this is just the beginning. Your symptoms will worsen drastically. Your sentiments, as undeserving as their recipient is, are nothing short of admirable, Bilbo Baggins. But they should not be your doom.”_
> 
> Bilbo has a talk with one of the wisest beings in Middle Earth—a pretext for backstories and other musings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this is not beta-ed and the author is not a native speaker.  
> Enjoy! :D

He doesn’t have the time to think more about the petals, because the next evening they encounter Trolls, and then they’re chased by Orcs and Wargs straight into Rivendell. The events that snowball until they get there keep him distracted, and he momentarily forgets about the petals, only a mild cough plaguing him along the way.

The Dwarves seem repulsed by the ways of the Elves, rejecting the food they're offered and taking offense in every single little thing, but for Bilbo, Rivendell is a dream come true. Nevermind the fact that he's got a roof over his head, a warm bed, hot water for bathing, and delicious meals, after one long dreadful month of sleeping on the ground, bathing in cold streams, and eating Bombur's thin stews—he's visiting the place he's always wanted so badly to visit, and frankly, it is so much more impressive than he'd imagined.

So, while he relishes in the safety and comfort offered by the Elven home and marvels at its grandiosity, he affords to forego thinking about what had transpired before the Troll incident.

Well, that is up until after dinner on their first evening in Rivendell, when he's painfully reminded of his affliction during a walk through the splendid gardens.

He’s by a bush of roses, shaking off a coughing fit that leaves him with his mouth filled with the iron taste of blood and with another blue petal in his palm when he notices someone approaching him. He’s hunched over himself and has yet to make the effort to straighten up, but out of the corner of his eye, he can tell that the person isn’t a Dwarf, to his relief.

When he finally begins to breathe more easily and raises his head, he encounters Lord Elrond’s concerned gaze. He curls his hand into a fist to hide the blood and the petals, but he thinks that there is no point in hiding anything from the wise Elf.

“You are unwell,” Elrond states, not a shadow of doubt in his tone.

Bilbo swallows, unsure of himself, and a small wince is sketched on his face when the taste of blood lingers on his tongue. “Yes, well,” he clears his throat consciously, “it’s not like I signed up for a vacation when I left home.”

The Elf raises an elegant eyebrow. “The resilience of Hobbits is not unheard of, though it is common knowledge that they rarely leave the comforts of home behind. Your participation in this quest is just as surprising as your… _condition_. Nevertheless, if one were to associate the two, much of the surprise turns into logic and sense.”

Bilbo’s cheeks burn uncomfortably. Does the Elf _know_? “I didn’t—it started after…” he stutters, eager to deny Elrond’s assumption. The allusion that Bilbo had joined the quest on account of his troublesome affection is ridiculous. It wasn’t like that. However, a second later, Thorin’s song echoes in his ears, as it had in the halls of his home a moon ago. A shiver runs down his spine, and he starts to question the meaning behind Elrond’s words.

“I see,” Elrond says mildly, conveying a hint of sympathy. “May I?”

The Elf is gesturing toward Bilbo’s closed fist, with a soft expression of kindness and concern on his graceful features. He knows already, so Bilbo sees no point in hiding anymore. With a sigh, he reveals his palm to the Elf. The crinkled royal blue petal that had been strained in Bilbo’s fist expands slowly before their eyes, still beautiful in spite of its deep creases and the blood adorning it.

Elrond simply hums and nods his head once, noncommittally, as though he witnesses such odd things daily. Bilbo wants to know how the Elf came to be acquainted with a disease that is specific to Hobbits only, and rarely even surfaces among them. If Bilbo himself hadn’t known of two other cases of the flower disease, he would have dismissed it as an old wives’ tale, or perhaps a silly myth, when he’d first heard of it as a child.

It is not very common for Hobbits to be struck by it. They are romantic beings, sure, but not when it comes to loving fiercely without holding back, almost to the point of the supreme sacrifice. That kind of love is not a concept they grasp easily. Their courtships are taken lightly, they're volatile, playful, and often fleeting. Hearts don't tend to stay broken for too long in the Shire.

He still remembers the shocks and gasps of the small crowd that had gathered in the market when, years and years ago, a young pretty Hobbit, an old schoolmate of his, had vomited fully-bloomed tuberoses. She had choked and gasped for air on her knees, hunched over the white flowers streaked with blood, while the crowd stared. Days later, he overheard his gossipy aunt saying that the flowers had been meant for another lass, who was already engaged to be married to a Proudfoot lad at the time.

Hobbits learn the significance of flowers and their colour before they even learn to walk. Everyone knew what tuberoses stood for—forbidden love. The fact that they were white had infuriated his aunt, Bilbo recalls.

‘There’s nothing  _pure_  about that sort of love,’ his aunt had declared with a huff, and Bilbo had wanted to give himself away, to jump out from where he accidentally overheard the awful statement and defend the poor girl and the love she would soon die for.

Bilbo didn’t go to her funeral, he didn’t really know her, but he’d heard that the other lass attended it and that she’d ended her engagement. The cancellation of the wedding and the reason behind it had been the talk of the Shire for months.

He also still remembers the lovely red carnation framed above his parents’ bed, the last one that Bungo Baggins had thrown up before his heart found the courage and strength to confess to Belladonna Baggins the extent of his sentiments.

He’d heard tales of other cases, but Bungo’s is the only one he knows of that hadn’t resulted in death. One of the earliest memories from his childhood is sitting on his mother’s lap and listening to the story of how Bungo Baggins showed up one day at her door, the morning after she’d returned from one of her adventures, a flower that would one day be framed above their bed held delicately in his hands. A dark red carnation that stood for deep affection and love.

Bilbo knows his mother had left out the gruesome details, of how his father had been so ill he could barely stand when he’d showed up, of how he’d confessed that this is his last chance and that he would have been content with dying had she denied him her heart. Of how Bungo hadn't believed that Belladonna could reciprocate, not at first, and the disease had receded so slowly, that it almost killed Bungo anyway. It was a happy tale, after all, and Belladonna saw no reason in sharing the part in which it didn’t seem like one.

‘I wish for you to find love like this, too, someday,’ she used to whisper to her faunt.

He didn’t. Hasn’t. Not even now, when he’s somehow managed to infect himself with the disease of unrequited love. All his dalliances have been meaningless, and he’s only known love through the poetic Elvish ballads he enjoys studying. He’s always assumed he’d be a bachelor and he’s been content thinking so, even if it means going against the wish of his parents.

Bilbo feels like laughing ironically, realizing he’s inherited so much from his parents. His mother’s penchant for adventure and danger, and his father’s loving heart, vulnerable to the disease. They’d be proud of him, wouldn’t they? Bilbo isn’t sure anymore, now that he knows that failure to find love like theirs will be what seals his fate.

“A striking flower,” the Elf points out, pulling Bilbo back from his bitter thoughts. “But I am certain that my knowledge of its meaning does not match yours in accuracy.”

Bilbo shrugs. He has never been quite as passionate about flowers as the other individuals of his race. He enjoys gardening as much as the next Hobbit, sure, and knows all there is to know about it. But he’d much rather leave his flowerbeds in the care of Hamfast Gamgee’s more than capable hands, while he retreats to his study to pour over some Elvish writings, or while he treks for days to Frogmorton and back.

But yes, he knows what his iris stands for. Hope, faith, respect, and deep admiration. The strive toward an unreachable love, when the colour blue and its meaning are paired with the flower. Not to mention that the iris and this exact shade of blue are also symbols of royalty. Bilbo is sure that Elrond is fully aware of each meaning that Bilbo could enumerate. Figuring out for whom are the flowers meant is no difficult thing, the colour itself is enough of an indicator. But Bilbo is sure that the identity of the individual had been clear for Elrond even before Bilbo revealed the petal.

“I assume that you would not consider confessing,” Elrond says, frowning ever so slightly.

It’s sudden, and it’s the first time that Bilbo must fully acknowledge the situation he finds himself in. He hasn’t had the time to think about it before, but the answer is obvious.

“It is not an option, no,” Bilbo confesses.

He can’t bear to think what Thorin would have to say, knowing that he disapproves of what who he is and of his participation in his quest. He would fade and die in less than a day, he knows it. It’s how the disease works, if one doesn’t succumb without even trying to confess. It’s either confess, face rejection, and die hours later, or confess, let oneself be convinced that the other returns one’s affection, and live. Though the latter is highly improbable. The disease has a reputation for taking the life of the afflicted, not for uniting lovers.

“You must be aware that this is just the beginning. Your symptoms will worsen drastically. Your sentiments, as undeserving as their recipient is, are nothing short of admirable, Bilbo Baggins. But they should not be your doom.”

Bilbo feels like laughing again. Not only because he already knows that the recipient is somewhat undeserving and he’s amused by Elrond perceiving him in a similar manner, but also because he’s headed to his doom anyway.

The Company hired him to face a live, fire-breathing beast of an unimaginable size. If he survives the dragon, he’ll succumb to the disease anyway, if he even fights it long enough to reach the slopes of the Mountain. And if he finds his end in that Mountain, well, he can die knowing that he did his best to ensure that the Dwarves take back their home. That Thorin reclaims his throne. He’s got nothing to lose, has he? But he doesn’t share this morbid thought with the wise Elf-lord.

“You are more than welcome to stay here, if you so desire,” Elrond continues. “My healers would tend to your illness, and perhaps even resolve it, if you would be willing to part with what you feel.”

Bilbo barely has time to register Elrond’s offer and its significance, never mind replying, because he notices Thorin on the other side of the alley, approaching the two of them. He can’t help the panic that surges within him at the thought that the Dwarf might have overheard their conversation.

“You’ll have to excuse me, my Lord Elrond,” he quickly says, and he turns on his heels abruptly, darting in the opposite direction, eager to put distance between himself and the Dwarf before any other words are exchanged.

It’s only when he reaches the room that the Elf-lord had graciously hosted him in that he realises he should have thanked Elrond for his concern and offer. He mentally kicks himself, but he doesn’t have the time to further consider his disrespect, because he feels another coughing fit coming, which leaves him struggling for breath. Two separate petals fall to the floor this time.

* * *

He doesn’t manage to catch another moment alone with Lord Elrond for the remainder of the Company’s stay in Rivendell. But he still considers their exchange. The offer the Elf had made was not very clear as to what it would entail, but Bilbo thinks he got the gist of it. If the healers were to remove the flowers growing in his lungs, they would also remove the feelings that had caused them to start growing. It makes sense to Bilbo.

Remove the feelings he has for a haughty, disrespectful, and mistrusting Dwarf who wouldn’t even give Bilbo the time of day if it weren’t for his role as the burglar of the Company.

For the first time since the first petal fell, Bilbo begins to analyse what he feels, and he can’t find a single reason for his affections. He becomes angry with himself, as he can’t find an explanation to the disease that will eventually take his life.

That night after his talk with Elrond, he gets out of bed, so he could search for an Elven healer, now that he knows they could be able to cure him. They’re more than welcome to get rid of his feelings for that bloody Dwarf! He wouldn’t even care if they erase everything in his heart and mind related to him. 

But just as he climbs out of bed, he almost steps on the petals he’d thrown up earlier and couldn’t find the strength to clean up after he’d stopped gasping for air. Their colour is still vibrant, even in the lack of light, and Bilbo feels a pang in his chest. He stops dead in his tracks, and lowers himself back on the bed, eyes still glued to the twin petals on the floor.

When he closes them moments later, the twinge in his chest throbs agonizingly, because it is so, so easy to picture Thorin’s kingly and sharp features, those blue eyes that seem to be so haunted, the mane of raven-black hair that the wind adores to toy with. It’s so easy to hear Thorin motivate his Company with strong words of encouragement, comfort his nephews in hushed and kind tones that talk of a home he longs for, or sing ballads in a beautiful but harsh tongue by the campfire.

He’s noble, ambitious, resilient. Brave, honourable, and charming as only royalty can be. Worthy of loyalty and offering precious loyalty in return. Loyalty that Bilbo has, unbeknownst to him, begun to offer, and that he now realises he badly desires to gain as well.

The anguish in his chest melts away, dissipating into lovely warmth that spreads through his body like wildfire.

No, he cannot remove this  _thing_ , it’s part of him now. This past month, it has changed him radically. He cannot go back now. He will not. It’s not Thorin’s fault that Bilbo was silly enough to fall prey to the flower sickness. It would be even sillier of him to blame Thorin.

It’s fast and unexpected, and it will take time for him to get used to the idea, but there is no way but forward. He takes a deep breath, and he can swear that the flowers in his lungs are blooming. It’s all right. He just prays that he’ll be strong enough until… well, until the end. Whatever end he’ll face.

So, when Thorin ushers them out of Rivendell as Gandalf buys them time to sneak away, Bilbo’s small window in which he could have made a different decision vanishes. He doesn’t regret it as much as he thought he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the chapter was to your liking! I know it had a lot of psychological processes and analysis, but I needed to give some background info about the disease, and create a context for Bilbo's own case. 
> 
> For those of you unfamiliar with the Hanahaki trope, yes, the option of surgery is available, but removing the flowers also means removing the feelings that cause them, and sometimes the memories of the loved one, too. Confessing and being rejected causes the victim to die more quickly. Confessing and receiving confirmation of reciprocation represents the cure, but if the victim isn't fully persuaded that the love is mutual, they might also die.
> 
> Anyway, please let me know what you thought, if you feel like it :D


	3. The First Flower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’s sure that if they were to turn back on the same way they’re traveling, the trail would be adorned with the blue iris petals he leaves behind, so at least he knows how to find their way back if they get lost. The thought makes him want to snort. At least his condition would be useful for something._
> 
>  
> 
> The Company gets back on the road. A certain remark addressed to Bilbo after the Stone Giant fight elicits a strong response.  
> 

In the next two weeks, Bilbo’s breathing becomes more and more laboured. Every breath, each in and out, is a small struggle, accompanied by rasps and sharp pains in his chest. It doesn’t help that the mountain air is thin and that the trail they follow requires a great deal of physical effort to travel.

It draws the attention of the Dwarves, as well as the concern of the ones that he’s begun to befriend in the aftermath of the Troll incident, namely Bofur, Balin, Ori, Kíli, and Fíli. The others, sans Thorin, appear to be more tolerating of him. Apparently, his wit and the way he stalled for time had impressed the Dwarves. Finally being accepted makes this new stage of the journey more pleasant. When they ask him about the coughing, Bilbo deflects their questions and concern, blaming everything on the difficult trek and the unforgiving weather, even though it’s July already.

He hates to appear defenceless and frail, but he can no longer hide his coughing and breathing issues. He concocts a simple lie, saying he's had trouble breathing since childhood, and that the Dwarves shouldn’t worry, because he’s used to it and it doesn’t affect his health much. Thankfully, Gandalf isn’t around to compromise his excuse, since the Wizard knows he’s a perfectly healthy Hobbit. Or was, at least.

The petals become more frequent and they multiply in number. He begins to throw up three or more at a time, sometimes up to even four times a day. When it’s time for him to spit them out, he tries to be as discreet as possible, moving toward the edge of their group and becoming the last in the line.

He’s sure that if they were to turn back on the same way they’re traveling, the trail would be adorned with the blue iris petals he leaves behind, so at least he knows how to find their way back if they get lost. The thought makes him want to snort. At least his condition would be useful for something.

There are times when Thorin insists to be the last one, so he can make sure no one is left behind when the path becomes rough, so more than once he is forced to cough them out in the collar of his coat and deal with the blood as inconspicuously as he can.

He could be just paranoid, but he can swear on his mother's ancient silver cutlery that he feels Thorin’s stare on the nape of his neck every time the King switches for the last place in their formation. He doesn’t know if word of his explanation for the coughing has reached the leader of the Company, but whenever he feels that prickling sensation on the back of his neck and turns around, there is something different in Thorin’s usually cold stare. Suspicion, perhaps. More than Bilbo already faces.

And then, the fight between the Stone Giants happens.

As Bilbo is left dangling on the steep edge of the cliff, it occurs to him that maybe this is the way he’s meant to perish, in the end. It would certainly be easier this way, less painful than being burned alive by a dragon, or being suffocated by the infection thriving in his lungs. A fall, a long fall, and then—splat. No suffering, a quick death. He almost lets go, exhausted and strained after weeks of troubled breathing, knowing that he wouldn’t have the strength to hold onto the ledge much longer anyway.

Before he has the time to realize how foolish that option sounds, Thorin’s strong hand grabs him and drags him back up, the Dwarf endangering his own life in the process. The relieved breath that Bilbo lets out is perhaps the least pained one in days.

“I thought we’d lost our burglar,” Dwalin says as he helps Thorin climb back onto the ledge and to his feet.

Thorin pants, then turns his head over his shoulder to throw Bilbo a frigid, displeased look. “He's been lost ever since he left home. He should never have come, he has no place amongst us,” he declares harshly.

For a brief second, Bilbo wishes that he’d indeed let go.

“He didn’t mean that,” Bofur whispers to him pacifyingly, when they find shelter. Bilbo tries to hum in response, but it comes out as more of a high-pitched whine. He doesn't quite agree, though. He appreciates Bofur's gesture, but they both know well enough by now that the proud King means every single thing he says. Bilbo would admire that, if the words said with brutal honestly didn’t feel like a punch to his throat, every time Thorin addresses him. 

Shortly after, he cuddles up all alone in a distant corner of the cave, still shivering from both fright and humid clothes, even though he's wrapped up tightly in a blanket. His back is to the cold wall,  knees are tucked loosely against his chest, and that's when he throws up his first entire flower.

He’d encircled his arms around his knees and rested his head upon them, a position that helps to hide his dry heaving. The flower leaves behind a scratching sensation in his throat, as it makes its way up with every cough and heave, bringing tears to his eyes. His entire body hurts, especially the muscles in his chest and abdomen, which burn with every cough.

It falls into his lap, sheltered from his companions’ eyes. It’s beautiful, he can't help but think, in spite of its wrinkled and wet petals. He watches them unfold, now that they escaped the pressure put upon them by the clenching muscles of his throat. The flower's smell is heady, a familiar fragrance, but it feels slightly unnatural, now that it is mixed with the coppery scent of blood.

He wipes consciously at the corners of his mouth before he lifts his head up. Unsurprisingly, Bofur is watching them with concern etched on his face. Bilbo sketches a small smile, meant to reassure the Dwarf, but he doesn’t think that it was very convincing, because the Dwarf's frown deepens. 

His eyes are then drawn to Thorin. The King had removed his fur coat, leaving it to dry nearby and revealing the fitting armour underneath that still glistens with droplets of rain, some of which drip from his wet hair. When he finally sits down, he first throws a concerned glance toward his nephews, who had huddled close together for warmth, then his blue stare follows each member of the Company, until it settles on Bilbo.

Bilbo's lungs burn, and he shies his head away before the King makes eye contact. He feels Thorin’s stare linger, and it triggers a new fit of coughing and wheezing that he uselessly tries to stifle. No other petals come out, but the pain and discomfort are not dulled, now that he feels the longing so strongly in his chest.

Bilbo supposes it’s been there from the very start, perhaps since that fateful night when he heard that deep voice singing for the first time, a harrowing song about a home lost to dragon fire that echoed through the halls of Bag End. He doesn’t know for sure, it might as well have happened gradually, as he’d spent time in the King’s presence in those first weeks of travel.

But he’s certain of one thing, Bilbo realizes as he stares at the crinkled, blood-stained petals of the blue iris he’d just coughed out—he’s going to die for Thorin Oakenshield, and it won’t matter if it’s because of dragon fire or the love that makes deadly flowers grow in his lungs.

He heaves, clutching at his chest, silently praying for his lungs to settle. Wetness gathers at the corners of his eyes, and he tells himself it’s because he’s struggling to breathe, and not because he’s trying to make peace with his fate. Or because he’s overwhelmed by the feelings he harbours for the Dwarf King, who stated minutes ago that Bilbo has no place in his Company.

He hadn't been ready to admit them just yet, but now that he is faced with the reality of his first flower, he is. It's a bitter realisation, and it's crippling for Bilbo to accept it in the wake of what has just transpired between him and Thorin.

As soon has he can breathe somewhat normally again, he waits in silence for the Company to fall asleep, then packs his bag. He'll return to Rivendell. He’s not sure if he wants to take Lord Elrond up on his kind offer, but he has every intention of spending some time in the Elven realm before heading back home, disease cured or not. He’s fairly certain that he can no longer continue this journey. Not in those conditions.

Bofur tries to stop him, of course he does, so Bilbo snaps and says things he doesn’t really mean. It that moment, he forgets why he left his home to join Thorin Oakenshield's Company. When Bofur resignedly offers him the best and bids him farewell, Bilbo almost wishes that the friendly Dwarf had succeeded in his endeavour to convince him to stay.

But it matters not, because seconds later the ground beneath his feet splits open, and Bilbo falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was both fun and painful to write. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please let me know what you liked or didn't like below :D


	4. Conciliations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bilbo feels as though those blue eyes pierce right through him, like precise, poisoned arrows. He is hit by nausea, and he considers dropping to his knees and throwing up another flower right there at Thorin’s feet. Nothing else would serve as better explanation, if the Dwarves had been aware of the nature of his disease. They’re not, obviously, but he supposes Gandalf could explain it to them, while Bilbo would still be spluttering petals and blood on the forest floor._
> 
> Certain events make Thorin reconsider Bilbo's position in the Company.

Bilbo falls for what feels like minutes. He fights his first Goblin, falls some more, finds a ring, plays a game of riddles with Middle Earth’s oddest possible creature and wins, then finds his way out of the caves with the aid of that curious trinket, all in one long night.

He feels only relief when he sees the Company and Gandalf regrouping in the distance, relief to find them and join them again. His thoughts from before, that almost had him leaving the Company, are entirely forsaken. He starts approaching them hurriedly, but when he gets within earshot of the Company, his heart stutters once more.

Thorin’s words on his absence hurt Bilbo just as much as the ones he’d said the evening before. He says with much conviction that Bilbo took his chance and headed home, that the Dwarves won’t see him again. “He is long gone,” he says, scornfully.

For a short while, he feels crushed by the thought that Thorin has such little faith in him. He hides behind a tree trunk, catching his breath and willing his lungs to not force up any irises or petals for now. He feels the bittersweet tang building up in his mouth already.

‘ _Enough_ ,’ he thinks, finding a sense of determination somewhere inside him, a drive to prove himself, to prove Thorin wrong.

He takes the ring with the mysterious power off his finger and makes an appearance from behind the tree. “No, he isn’t,” he says, drawing the attention of the entire company.

Thorin’s face contorts into a sour expression of defeat and Bilbo watches with satisfaction as a variety of surprised reactions and exclamations erupt from the Dwarves. Bilbo hopes that Thorin’s apparent disappointment is derived from being proven wrong, rather than from his return.

He’s asked how he made his escape from Goblin Town, and when he hesitates to answer, Gandalf perceptively deflects the question, saying that it doesn’t matter. But Thorin isn’t convinced, and Bilbo can tell by the raised chin and by the steely, squinted gaze that he won’t drop the matter easily.

“It matters,” he says, his low timbre reverberating through the forest glade. “I want to know; why did you come back?”

Bilbo feels as though those blue eyes pierce right through him, like precise, poisoned arrows. He is hit by nausea, and he considers dropping to his knees and throwing up another flower right there at Thorin’s feet. Nothing else would serve as better explanation, if the Dwarves had been aware of the nature of his disease. They’re not, obviously, but he supposes Gandalf could explain it to them, while Bilbo would still be spluttering petals and blood on the forest floor.

That won’t do, though. So, he breathes deeply, as deeply as he can without wheezing, trying to keep his nausea at bay.

He replies, telling Thorin he’d been right in doubting him, explaining that he indeed misses his home, but also that he wants to help the Dwarves take back theirs for this reason. Because he knows what it means to have a home. It’s the reason he left Bag End, after all. The disease came after, but he won’t let it deter him from his initial purpose, not one bit. Quite the opposite, really.

He ends his speech with a small, understanding smile, meant for the Dwarf King. Thorin drops his gaze to the ground, but it finds Bilbo again a second later, his previously unyielding expression having had softened.

Pinned by his eyes, Bilbo doesn’t dare to move. His lungs scream in protest as he abstains from wheezing or coughing, but he won’t let the disease ruin this first moment of understanding between the two of them.

Remembering that Thorin wasn’t the only Dwarf present, Bilbo finally breaks eye contact and takes in the reaction of the others, and he’s pleased to see that they seem to finally understand why Bilbo joined them, why Bilbo cares. A sense of belonging fills him for the first time since he left the Shire behind, two months ago.

It’s a short-lived moment, because that’s when Warg cries echo through the forest, alarming them all. And so, they’re on the run again, and they run until they have nowhere left to turn. They manage to climb the trees at the edge of the cliff they find themselves cornered on.

Fear runs through Bilbo’s veins when a troop of vicious Orcs on terrifying mounts emerges from the tree line. The Orc who seems to be in charge points his mace at Thorin, spitting out foul words in Orcish. Its skin is pale-white and is riddled with deep scars; the sight reminds Bilbo of one story that Balin had told by the campfire one evening early into the journey. Could this Orc be the same one from the story?

A quick glance in Thorin’s direction confirms Bilbo’s thoughts. The Dwarf stares in disbelief at his sworn enemy, anger and determination starting to seep through his reactions.  Bilbo wants to yell, to stop him from engaging, but he knows Thorin would never listen.

So, he helplessly watches Thorin charge through the burning vegetation they’d set alight in an attempt to fend off the Wargs. He cries out, heart bursting in painful trepidation when the Defiler’s Warg picks Thorin up in its maw and tosses him around like a ragdoll.

He watches until he can no longer watch. He grips the sword with as much conviction as he can muster, and he listens to his instinct. Next thing he knows, he’s tackling the Orc that was intent on taking Thorin’s head and he drives his trusty sword through its chest, with a strength he never knew he possessed.

He gets up, and plants himself between the Pale Orc and Thorin’s still body, fierce protectiveness flaring up inside him. He stares the Orc in the eye defiantly, flinging his sword around in a silent dare. He won’t let them. He’ll let himself be taken first.

Thankfully, his actions have given the other Dwarves time to intervene, so it doesn’t come to that. Kíli, Fíli, and Dwalin, the Dwarves closest to Thorin and also his best warriors, come to his aid roaring, and Bilbo finds himself pushed aside by the Defiler’s mount in the chaos that ensues.

For the second time in two days, Bilbo thinks he has met his end. He doesn’t even register the Eagles’ shrieks at first, his heart beating much too loudly in his ears. He huffs in wonder as their claws and wings change the outcome of the skirmish.

The flight is surreal. Bilbo would have enjoyed it immensely, had he not been worried sick about Thorin for the entirety of its duration. The King is clutched in the talons of an Eagle, eyes shut and motionless since the Warg had thrown him against a crag.

When the Eagles drop them off on yet another cliff, Bilbo all but runs to him, but he stops himself once he sees Gandalf already tending to the Dwarf. To his immediate relief, Thorin flutters his eyes open, and Bilbo feels the stringent taste of blood carrying the scent of irises in his mouth.

“The Halfling?” is the first thing that comes out of Thorin’s mouth, voice rough with consternation.

Gandalf reassures the Dwarf of Bilbo’s safety, and Thorin is helped to his feet. Immense relief overwhelms Bilbo when he realises that Dwarf appears to have escaped the encounter mainly unscathed. He lets out a stuttered sigh, which only manages to exacerbate his nausea. He waits, a hint of a smile starting to tug at the corners of his lips, but it dissipates before it has a proper chance to bloom. 

“You!” Thorin barks harshly at Bilbo, once he can stand unsupported. His hair is strewn over his shoulders in tangles, as he leans forward dangerously. The fresh scratches and cuts that shine red and mar his handsome features make him look even more ferocious. “What were you doing?” he shouts, eyebrows furrowed in anger.

Bilbo doesn’t know how to reply. He hadn’t even realised that he’d begun hoping that, after this encounter, he’d gain perhaps an ounce of Thorin’s trust, if not even his respect. That was a foolish thing to hope for, he gets that now. Crestfallen, he says nothing, mouth slightly opened as his breath rasps in his throat, shoulders heavy.

Perhaps Bilbo’s efforts to prove himself were downright useless, after all. Perhaps Thorin just inherently dislikes him, and he’ll always hold Bilbo in contempt and treat him like an intruder no matter how much Bilbo tries to win him over, or what he does to gain his loyalty.

“You nearly got yourself killed!” Thorin continues, voice bellowing. He takes a step forward, and it takes an absurd amount of self-restraint for Bilbo to remain rooted to the spot he’s currently in, and not take a step backward. He won’t cower, he can take it, whatever Thorin has to say to him. He can no longer deny that it feels like heartbreak, and he knows he’ll suffocate more and more with every word Thorin spats, courtesy of his useless, diseased lungs. But he’ll take it. It’s the only thing he can do now, it’s too late for anything else.  

“Did I not say that you would be a burden?” the Dwarf asks cruelly, taking another step toward Bilbo.

And Bilbo yields. His feet shuffle backward with a small stumble. He suppresses a whimpering cough. Thorin did say that, and he’s right. Bilbo is sorry he’s a burden, but he tried _so hard_ not to be.

“That you would not survive in the wild? That you had no place amongst us?” Another step.

Bilbo can’t bear to look at him anymore, so he shies his eyes away. He’s not even embarrassed, or offended, even though he’s being chastised before the entire Company, some of which he has begun to think of as his friends. He’s just… crushed.

“I’ve never been so wrong in all my life.”

Oh.

It is not the blow Bilbo expected, the blow he pretended he was prepared for. It is not a shout of scorn, or a barked insult, like his tormenting questions had been. It is a sincere confession, said with gratitude. And then Thorin takes the last step forward, closing the distance between them. His arms suddenly pull Bilbo into a crushing embrace, engulfing him in his scent and warmth.

It’s like the strain put on Bilbo’s entire body over the past two months vanishes. It feels like coming home. Bilbo’s senses are overwhelmed and his body melts into the Dwarf’s. Thorin’s curls are pressed against his cheek, soft despite their unruliness, and their intoxicating smell weakens Bilbo’s knees. When Bilbo finally lifts his arms to return the embrace, his palms find smooth fur spoiled by pine needles and dirt, but he doesn’t care as he presses them against Thorin’s back in reciprocation. The difference in size makes it almost impossible for him to circle his arms around Thorin fully, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. However, he adores the way in which he is completely absorbed by Thorin’s arms and chest, suffocated and yet feeling more alive than ever.

Thorin hugs like he does everything—wholeheartedly and confidently. Bilbo wonders if he kisses like that, too.

When he breaks the embrace, he keeps his hands on Bilbo’s arms for a short while, his large palms emanating searing heat that Bilbo can feel through his layers. Thorin then looks him up and down, as though he tries to quickly discern if Bilbo is hurt.

The Hobbit is nothing short of confused. Thorin thanked him in his own way, setting his pride aside, then hugged him, and now he shows concern for Bilbo. And it has all happened in less than one minute, after Bilbo had to endure two months of disapproving grunts and scowls.

He looks up at Thorin for an explanation. Thorin’s eyes convey warmth, and it’s the first time Bilbo has seen such a soft expression on the Dwarf’s face. The Hobbit’s lungs beg for air, but they find no reprieve.

“I am sorry I doubted you,” the Dwarf says, almost penitently, and it’s everything Bilbo has been wanting to hear. 

“No, I would have doubted me too,” he replies, shaking his head. Until today, he hadn’t known he had the strength to overcome himself. “I’m not a hero, or a warrior. Not even a burglar,” he confesses, to the amusement of the other Dwarves.

Thorin doesn’t laugh, but there is a small smile brightening his features, a gleam in his eyes. Being under his gaze like this makes Bilbo dizzy, so he breaks the contact. Thorin does too, only for his eyes to find something on the horizon. Following his gaze, Bilbo catches his first glimpse of Erebor.

It's not that far away, he thinks. His resolve strengthens as his lungs finally find some respite. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wanted to rewrite the scene on the Carrock in one of my fics, and now I finally got the chance. I don't know if I did it justice, but it was fun to write :D
> 
> Many of you have expressed concern over the disease's quick progression. Since the fic is written from Bilbo's point of view, some aspects about the technicalities of the disease might not be obvious, so I will endeavor to answer any of your questions in notes (like I will now), or in replies to your lovely comments. To clarify, the disease has a psychological aspect in this rendition of the trope. Meaning, in my version of the disease, it doesn't just progress rectilinearly, but it can also regress. Flowers and petals are much more likely to appear in greater number if Bilbo believes he is not wanted, but if the belief were to be rebutted, the sickness will have much lesser effects on his health. The first flower showing up doesn't mean that Bilbo will start vomiting more and more exponentially each day. So, a full iris is both a manifestation of Bilbo's feelings _and_ a reaction to whatever Thorin does/says, whereas petals/coughs are just unpreventable and permanent symptoms of the disease. Hope this clarifies things a bit and eases your worries, haha. 
> 
> I also hope you've enjoyed this fourth chapter! Please let me know your thoughts about it below, if you can spare the time! :D  
> I must confess, your responses to the fic have surprised me, I didn't think that so many of you would be so invested already! You have no idea how much I cherish every comment and how happy I am that this fic appeals to you <3


	5. The Scout and the Healer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bilbo then notices that the King had risen from his bedroll and now leans against the wall with his arms folded over his chest, squinting his eyes. Guilt washes over him; Thorin must be annoyed that Bilbo’s coughing is keeping all the Dwarves awake when they should be resting._
> 
> After Bilbo proves his abilities as a scout, the first night at Beorn's house puts him in a delicate situation.

The descent from the Carrock is arduous, the steps often steep and slippery, too high for Bilbo. Whoever this Beorn who built them is, he’s not a very good builder; but then again, the steps weren’t probably built with the size of Dwarves or Hobbits in mind, though Bilbo can’t possibly see a human climbing them easily, either. Already tired from the misadventures in the Goblin tunnels and from fighting in the Orc skirmish, his lungs protest every time he inhales or exhales.

But he can tell that he’s doing better—much better than things had been in the cave. He still has the first flower in his breast pocket, and he can’t help but wonder when the next one will come. It’s not an experience he wants a repeat of anytime soon. He pats it from time to time, like a reflex. Every time he does, he thinks of the hug and his heartbeat picks up. He finds himself smiling.

There’s no denying that the hug had alleviated things. Bilbo hadn’t expected that it would. The first flower had scared him, and he knows it wasn’t a good sign that it had come this soon. In the back of his mind, he had anxiously begun thinking about how he should begin making plans for settling his affairs. But now? He doesn’t remember breathing so freely, not in the past month. He’s that glad for the respite.

When they reach the base of the Carrock, and the Company takes a small break to replenish their strength, he distances himself and throws up two petals, one after the other. He stands by, waiting for more, but the fit stops. Wide-eyed, he can’t help but smile a little at the regress of his symptoms. He’d been sure that a flower would follow. Thank Yavanna it did not. He recovers more quickly than usual, and he splutters less blood. After he catches his breath again, almost painlessly, he disposes of the petals in a nearby bush, so they wouldn’t attract anyone’s attention.

“Are you quite well, Bilbo?” Ori asks him worriedly when he gets back to the others.

Bilbo huffs, faking obliviousness. “Of course I am.”

“Good, we’ll need you to scout out the pack,” Thorin tells him, addressing Bilbo for the first time since their embrace on the Carrock. “You’d better be right about this, Gandalf,” he grunts quietly, more to himself rather than to Gandalf or the others.

Bilbo frowns. They’d speculated upon the Orcs following them, and Thorin had declared earlier they’ll send a scout, but Bilbo hadn’t thought he’d be the one Thorin would choose. He doesn’t know if he should be glad for the trust Thorin is now placing in him, or scared and wary of his task. Judging by the look that Gandalf and Thorin exchange, Gandalf is the one who came up with the suggestion.

But he’d just coughed out blood. He knows he must be reeking of it, of illness. He’s a poor choice for a scout. If he gets too near, those Wargs will follow him right back to the Company. He looks at Gandalf, and the Wizard gives him an encouraging nod. Did Gandalf think of this when he’d proposed Bilbo? Or does the Wizard not know of Bilbo’s affliction, even though Bilbo has an inkling that he does?

He can’t say no, not now that Thorin is trusting him with something important.

So, he finds a vantage point, counts the Wargs he fortuitously spots and estimates the distance, all while praying that his scent won’t be carried by the wind. The sight of the gigantic beast nearby startles him more than the pack’s proximity, so he hurries back to report what he’d seen.

Gandalf leads them to an opening, without revealing too much about his plans. The Wizard’s elusiveness creates tension within the Company, which mixes badly with the vulnerability they face now that they’re exposed in the open. To Bilbo’s exasperation, soon enough they’re on the run again, the beast from before _and_ the Warg pack nipping at their heels.

They find refuge in one isolated house, Gandalf choosing at that moment to inform them that the very creature that chased them here is none other than their host. That evening, they decide to sleep in the barn they’ve broken into, but since it’s a closed space and they’ve barricaded themselves in, there’s nowhere for Bilbo to find privacy, in case his condition stubbornly acts up. Luckily enough, his coughing is maintained at a minimum, and no petals try to make their way out just yet.

But his unpreventable coughs are audible, echoing in the barn more loudly than they would out in the open. He can tell that the Dwarves are shuffling in their bedrolls, the air filled with awkwardness.

“Look, lad, I might be half-deaf, but that don’t mean I cannae hear yer coughin’ loud ’n’ clear,” Óin tells him, standing up from his own bedroll and approaching Bilbo with his bag of medical supplies. “Will ye just let me have a look at ye? Quit pretendin’ yer alright, yer no’ doin’ anybody any favours,” the Dwarf yaps at Bilbo, ushering him up and gesturing adamantly at him to remove his vest and shirt.

Bilbo has no choice but to obey him, finding himself examined by the Dwarf physician. Óin listens to his lungs first, frowning and mumbling unintelligibly to himself. Bilbo tries to stay still, aware of the fact that every single Dwarf must be paying attention to what is happening.

“Well, can you help him?” Thorin asks, rather impatiently, when Óin finishes his examination.

Bilbo then notices that the King had risen from his bedroll and now leans against the wall with his arms folded over his chest, squinting his eyes at the Company’s physician. Guilt washes over him; Thorin must be annoyed that Bilbo’s coughing is keeping all the Dwarves awake when they should be resting.

Óin grumbles an unclear reply, then proceeds to tap his index finger firmly against a sore spot between Bilbo’s shoulder blades. It produces an immediate reaction—Bilbo coughs once, violently. The taste of blood on his tongue that follows almost has him gagging.

“What in Mahal’s holy name…” Óin trails off, baffled. He taps again on Bilbo’s back, this time lower, but just as firmly.

The second cough follows instantly. It’s not just blood that builds in his mouth, but a petal also travels up his throat, and Bilbo tries his darnedest best not to spit it out. But his gagging reflex cannot be stopped, even though he brings his fist against his mouth, stifling the sound and keeping the petal in.

But it’s too late—Óin is perceptive enough to notice.

“Open yer mouth, lad,” the healer asks of him. His voice rings ominously in Bilbo’s ears.

Bilbo considers his options, frightful eyes scanning the barn. Each and every one of the Dwarves is looking intently at him, with both worried and intrigued expressions etched on their faces. Even Gandalf watches from a distance, inhaling from his pipe, an indecipherable emotion emanating from his gaze.

He tries swallowing, shame and fear of being discovered getting the best of him. But his throat locks tightly. The petal won’t go back down, and before he knows it, Óin tugs with skilled fingers at his chin, prying his jaws open.

Bilbo shuts his eyes harshly as a cacophony of various exclamations erupts from the Company. When he can bear to open them, he’s met with sight of his petal in Óin’s palm, leaving behind a faint trail of blood as the healer turns it observantly as he studies it. Several Dwarves had gathered around Óin, wide eyes glued to the petal.

Óin finally turns his head toward Bilbo, brow furrowed. “Master Baggins, pardon me, I dinnae ken the manner in which ye Shire folk jest, but as an experienced physician, this joke o’ yers has no appeal to me.”

Bilbo sees his way out of it; he can laugh, tell that it’s a joke, that it’s just some trick. But he doesn’t get the chance to seize the opportunity, because Gandalf speaks up.

“It’s no joke, Master Óin. It’s the flower sickness,” the Wizard declares, standing up and picking up the petal from Óin’s palm. He holds it against the fire of the lanterns, the light peering through the petal’s translucent blue.

“Gandalf, _please_ , don’t…” Bilbo pleads, his own pulse deafening him. The apprehension makes his stomach sink.

“ _Sickness_?” Thorin asks sternly, stirring alarm amongst the Dwarves.

“It’s not—it’s not infectious, or anything!” Bilbo quickly argues, worried that Thorin might see him as a threat, that he’ll face his rejection all over again, that this disease will cause more damage than it has already. “It only affects Hobbits.”

“That is not what I—” Thorin tries to convey.

But Bilbo is more concerned about what Gandalf will say next, words that will probably assure his compromise. He anxiously waits for the Wizard to reveal the meaning of the petal, while the surrounding Dwarves ambush them with a clamour of confused questions and shouts. 

He’s doomed, Bilbo thinks, and his insides constrict painfully. But Gandalf says nothing. The Istari simply narrows his eyes at the petal again, calm comprehension painting his features.

“We’ll discuss this at a later time, Bilbo. Now, I believe your travel companions deserve an explanation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Squint and you might be able to see the mutual pining picking up! Also, I couldn't help overdoing Óin's scottishness, my apologies xD
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! :D Please let me know your thoughts below <3


	6. Exposed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bilbo doesn’t resist, replying to the questions with carefully chosen answers. “I’ve been coughing for about six weeks or so. Yes, I know the cause. No, there isn’t any known cure.”_
> 
> Bilbo reveals his secret to the Dwarves. The reactions that ensue are not quite what he'd expected.

Bilbo suddenly wishes he could turn into a gopher. He recalls that summer in which he waged war with one of those annoying creatures that wrecked his prized front lawn, hiding into the holes for days on end—he’s never thought he’d ever desire to possess a gopher’s ability to make itself scarce when the situation got out of hand. He could simply dig beneath him and disappear, and maybe bite Gandalf’s ankle first, for putting Bilbo in this ridiculous position.

Fourteen pairs of eyes are watching him expectantly, with tension and curiosity. He’s tempted to put the mysterious ring on his finger and reveal his other secret as well, but he realises he’s got no way to escape from the barricaded barn, and he’d have to face the Company at one point or another. He can’t possibly quit the journey over this matter. So, he’s got no way out. He must confess.

But what to say? How much of the truth to reveal, if any at all? He can tell that his time is running out, that the seconds pass quickly while he assesses the limited options that he has. There is no way he can tell the full truth—he simply cannot.

“It’s—it’s a Hobbitish disease,” he says, stuttering and wringing his hands. He doesn’t quite know how to continue. “And it’s not something you can catch—I promise I won’t get any of you sick,” he assures the Dwarves, throwing a glance at Thorin and hoping that the Company’s leader will believe him. The look on Thorin’s face isn’t discernible to Bilbo, however.

“We’re not worried about us, Bilbo, we’re worried about _you_ ,” Bofur points out, and his statement is followed by noises of agreement coming from some members of the Company. The others start a ruckus, on account of doubting Bilbo’s words, thus making the Dwarves closest to Bilbo defend him vehemently.

“ _Silence_!” Thorin’s voice is heard above all others, powerful and incontestable. The other Dwarves shut their mouths promptly, obeying their leader. “Let the Halfling speak,” the King adds. He’s no longer leaning against the wall, having taken a few steps closer to the centre of the room, but with his arms still folded against his chest.

Bilbo freezes under his gaze, and all his ideas for potential lies-by-omission vanish from his head. He tugs at his collar uncomfortably, then scratches the nape of his neck. His lungs constrict painfully, making him exhale harshly through his nose.

“Go on, speak up, laddie. I’m goin’ to need details if I’m to treat ye,” Óin encourages him when Bilbo doesn’t break the silence.

Right. Details. “There aren’t many details, honestly. Flowers simply grow in my lungs,” he admits, reluctant to add anything else.

Óin blinks slowly. Some of the Dwarves begin hushing, repeating words like “flowers” and “lungs”. It must be an odd concept for them to grasp, Bilbo figures. But Óin pulls through, no longer considering it to be a joke.

“Very well, then. How long have ye presented the symptoms? Do ye ken the cause? Are there any known cures?” the healer fires a volley of questions, fully stepping into his role and starting to examine Bilbo again. He tugs at Bilbo's eyelids, checks his hands and fingers, makes him open his mouth wide.

Bilbo doesn’t resist, replying to the questions with carefully chosen answers. “I’ve been coughing for about six weeks or so. Yes, I know the cause. No, there isn’t any known cure.”

He isn’t lying, not really. There really is no cure, not in the way that Óin meant to ask. No medicine, treatment, or drug that Óin can provide can help him.

Óin pulls back, interrupting his frantic examination. “What do ye mean _there isn’t any known_ —hush, ye blathering, nosey beard parasites! Move, _move_! Let my patient have some blasted privacy!” The healer proceeds to violently gesture, waving his trumpet around and ushering the rest of the Company into a corner of a barn. He then leads Bilbo toward the opposite one, trapping him and guarding him from the eyes of the others with his own body. 

In spite of Óin's considerate attempt at privacy, Bilbo can easily distinguish each and every whispered word the Dwarves from the other side of the room exchange. He figures they’ll be able to hear Bilbo, too, no matter how quietly he speaks. Óin is half-deaf, after all. The others might as well have remained where they’d been. There isn’t really room for privacy, and since they’ve fortified themselves in, with that terrifying beast probably circling the cottage, there’s nowhere to go. And Bilbo supposes Óin won’t wait until they have other options.

“Be specific, lad, ‘tis yer health we’re talkin’ about!” the physician demands, pointing at Bilbo’s chest with his half-mended hearing aid.

“Master Óin, I’d rather not—” he tries, but the Dwarf jabs his ear trumpet further into Bilbo’s chest.

“Now, I get that this is a delicate matter. Ye did yer best to hide yer affliction, for reasons I dinnae ken yet. But I swore an oath as a member of this Company, as did ye. While yer the burglar, I’m the physician. Ye understand ‘tis be my job, eh, lad? I ken not the diseases of yer kin, no. How inconceivable, flowers inside the lungs! I wouldn’t even believe ye if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. But ye must understand I cannae let ye be until I make sure I did everythin’ in my power to help ye.”

Bilbo knows that the deaf Dwarf is right. Again, he has no way out, it seems.

“The flower sickness, it—it is caused by the heart,” he confesses, feeling his cheeks heat up. He tries to keep his voice as low as possible, but Óin grunts and frowns, urging him to repeat himself. He does, louder, skin crawling at the idea of the Dwarves knowing that this is all caused by the matters of the heart.

Óin doesn’t get it at first. He attempts to listen to Bilbo’s heart, confused by the concept that both Bilbo’s lungs and heart are afflicted. But Bilbo shakes his head, stilling Óin’s hands with his own. The Dwarf seems to understand, then.

“It’s also called, uh, the disease of unrequited love. The flowers are a manifestation of it. The only _cure_ , so to speak, is reciprocation, and as you can deduce from the name, that is not something that is… achievable,” he whispers, praying he won’t have to repeat himself.

He’s aware that the other side of the room is motionless and quiet, surely listening in. Their eyes must be as wide as Óin’s.

“Ye dinnae mean to say ‘tis fatal, do ye?” the Dwarf asks through his teeth, leaning in.

Bilbo smiles a bit, bitterly. “I do, I’m afraid. There’s not much you can do, I’m sorry, Master Óin. But don’t worry, I promise I am, and will be, apt enough to perform my side of the contract.” Or so he hopes. He speaks slightly louder, for the others to hear. “I’m not at death’s door or anything. I won’t be, not anytime soon. I fully intend to see my smial again and live my last days there.”

That _is_ a lie, though. He knows that this journey will be the end of him, one way or another. He’s not too optimistic about his prospects after he fulfils the contract. But there’s no need to worry the Company unnecessarily.

“I ken yer in great discomfort and pain, laddie,” the physician says sympathetically, squeezing Bilbo’s arm. “There must be something I can do to ease yer suffering. I’ll concoct something tomorrow, pick some herbs,” Óin tells him, with determination.

Bilbo smiles again, not as bitterly. “I’d appreciate that, Master Óin.” That should placate the old Dwarf, he supposes. But he’s not relaxing yet, knowing all too well that Dwarves are meddlesome and curious creatures, who don’t know when to stop prying. The question will come, and he braces himself for it.

To his surprise, Óin lets him be. He heads straight for Thorin, pulling their leader aside. Bilbo’s stomach turns into a painful knot, knowing all too well that the healer is reporting his ineptitude. He imagines the worst.

Is Óin so perceptive as to figure it out, though? Is that why he didn’t ask the question that Bilbo fears? Is that what he is saying right now to Thorin? Panic and anger swarm him, and he turns toward Gandalf with the full intention of giving the troublesome Wizard a piece of his mind, for giving him away, for making him go through this—

But Kíli tackles him from behind, embracing him tightly before he can address the Wizard. Bofur is close behind him, as well as Balin and Ori.

“Master Boggins, we couldn’t help but overhear—you mustn’t give up hope yet! I’m sure that she-Hobbit of yours is just playing hard to get!” Kíli exclaims.

She-Hobbit? Are they assuming…? _Of course_ , it would make sense—why would the Dwarves’ first guess even be that he’s fallen for one of their own? He berates himself for not thinking about the obvious.

Balin pulls Kíli away from Bilbo, glancing at the Hobbit apologetically, as though he personally is at fault for Kíli’s behaviour. “Apologies, Master Baggins. We did not mean to pry, but sound carries easily in here. You have our sympathies, of course. Our own race knows all too well what it means to love fiercely.”

“You do?” Bilbo can’t help but ask, both surprised and intrigued.

Bofur quips before Balin has a chance to reply, however. “Worry not, Bilbo! When you get home with the treasure, you’ll win her heart just like that!” He snaps his fingers and winks at Bilbo.

Bilbo is somewhat disappointed in his friend, for believing it would be as easy as snapping one’s fingers, but he can’t not appreciate Bofur’s support, so he nods and smiles weakly.

“Indeed, Mister Bilbo! I bet she can’t say no when you return home a tried warrior with a fortune to your name! If she refuses you still, then she’s foolish and undeserving of your kind heart,” Ori chirps as well, smiling shyly.

Touched, Bilbo tries to thank him, but a coughing fit gets the best of him. He blames the nature of the discussion they’re having for the petal that he promptly throws up. The Dwarves are by his side, one patting his back in comfort, another helping him sit down. He appreciates it immensely, and for the first time, he doesn’t hide the petal. He allows the Dwarves to stare at it as it unfolds slowly in his blood-stained palm.

He tunes out the remarks that come from his friends, the questions, the supportive statements. He shouldn't, not when they're this supportive and kind to him. But his eyes are drawn to the King, who’s still talking with Óin. Fili and Dwalin are there huddled around them as well, throwing conspicuous glances toward Bilbo and the others. He’s not bothered by them as much as he’s bothered by the look in Thorin’s own eyes.

He flinches, as he recovers from the spasms of his lungs. There’s something raw in those eyes, something that Bilbo can’t quite name. His throat closes up, and he can’t tell if it’s the disease or his own reaction, though at this point he can’t really distinguish one from the other anyhow. He shies his gaze away before he has to watch Thorin’s expression shift into something else. He’s not sure he can stand it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I made a habit out of updating every Friday, and in my attempt to respect it, this chapter might have suffered a bit. I've had some issues with MS Word (an error, half of this chapter lost and the Autorecovery file randomly found in the Recycle Bin _days_ after the incident), and I haven't had the patience and the nerve to triple check for mistakes after I meshed what I'd lost with what I'd rewritten. I've been having a rough week, sadly. 
> 
> I hope the chapter was to your liking, however! Don't hesitate to let me know your thoughts below :D


	7. Lies and Elusive Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’s still bothered by the lie he was forced to weave, even though he didn’t have much say in it. The Dwarves had assumed, he didn’t deny, and now it’s too late to further manipulate the facts. What other explanation could he give, though, apart from the truth? Perhaps it’s better this way. Maybe one day, he’ll clear it up and come clean, when the end of his tale will be near._
> 
>  
> 
> (Bilbo finds some time to think. Before the Company enters Mirkwood, Gandalf avoids giving Bilbo clear answers.)

Beorn’s oddness challenges the one of the creature he’d met in the Goblin tunnels—Gollum, he’d decided to name it in his head, recalling the way in which it made terrible swallowing noises in its throat. The Skin-changer’s gentleness as a Man greatly contrasts with the fearsomeness of his beastly shape, not to mention his size in either form. Beorn is easily three times Bilbo’s size, if not even more; it’s quite intimidating.

His garden, however, is one of the most diverse and well-maintained that Bilbo has ever seen. It surpasses even Lobelia’s own garden, which is the envy of the Shire, having won countless distinctions and prizes in their yearly competitions. It doesn’t quite compare with what he’d seen in Rivendell, no, that kind of magnificence is unique, but he feels more charmed by Beorn’s garden because it is much more homely. While Gandalf and the Dwarves sit in the kitchen hunched over a map of Middle-Earth, plotting the course they’d follow through Mirkwood, he sneaks outside and spends most of the day under the most majestic oak he has ever seen, taking in the sight of the Skin-changer’s garden.

Naturally, his thoughts drift to the events of the previous night, and he coughs once, like a reflex. Óin did keep his word, picking up herbs from said garden first thing after the Company had revealed itself to Beorn. The tea that Bilbo now carefully sips is rather repugnant, but the soothing sensation it leaves down his throat makes it bearable to drink. The healer had promised to brew more of it, whenever their journey allows it, and Bilbo is forever grateful.

He picks up a stray acorn that had fallen in the grass near his feet. Brushing the pads of his fingers against the smooth surface of the seed is strangely comforting, so he decides to pocket it, as a memento of this quiet afternoon. He gets a feeling there won’t be many more of those in the weeks to come.

He dislikes the fact that he’s lied to his friends, making them believe the flowers are for some nameless lass back home. Kíli and Ori, the young ones, the daydreamers, had asked about her over breakfast, eager to hear a story of true love, but he chokes with panic, unable to reply. Fortunately enough, the young Dwarves misinterpret his reaction, assuming that the memories are bitter and that he’d rather not talk of her. Their spirits deflate with disappointment, and they leave Bilbo be, while the older, wiser Dwarves throw him sympathetic looks.

The lot of them are certainly more supportive than Bilbo had thought they would be. He’d expected them to be insensitive and fatalistic, thus making Bilbo feel even worse. But he’s glad to have been proven wrong, and he feels rather silly for having thought otherwise. Of course Dwarves will be Dwarves—they’re cheery and caring, once they accept one in their midst, so obviously they weren’t going to gloom over Bilbo’s sickness. It makes sense that they try to make him feel better by ignoring the disease’s fatal nature, as though pretending that it won’t kill Bilbo is going to prevent that from happening.

He’s still bothered by the lie he was forced to weave, even though he didn’t have much say in it. The Dwarves had assumed, he didn’t deny, and now it’s too late to further manipulate the facts. What other explanation could he give, though, apart from the truth? Perhaps it’s better this way. Maybe one day, he’ll clear it up and come clean, when the end of his tale will be near.

That day almost came much sooner than he intends, because this morning he’d thought the whole story would fall apart. Fíli, with his bright thinking, had realised that the numbers don’t quite add up. As in, why has Bilbo been coughing for six weeks, when they’d left the Shire two months ago?

In that moment, he’d thought that he’d have to reveal the entirety of his secret, right then and there, with Thorin two seats away and listening intently. But thankfully he was quick on his feet and came up with a logical answer: “absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he’d said, making the Dwarves believe that his disease had been instilled by distance from the object of his affections. The answer satisfied Fíli, but it also dampened the mood at the table. He makes a mental note to ask Balin what he meant when he said that the Dwarven race understands what it’s like to love ardently.

Their stay at Beorn’s is shorter than Bilbo would have liked. Gandalf assures him that they would visit Beorn again on his way back to the Shire, but Bilbo isn’t comforted by that, knowing all too well he might not survive to make the return trip. He smiles weakly, preparing his backpack for their passage through Mirkwood with the new supplies Beorn had generously provided.

When he first sets eyes upon Mirkwood the following day, his guts twist apprehensively, and Gandal's announcement that he wouldn’t accompany them through the wicked forest makes Bilbo feel even more uneasy. He still hasn’t had the chance to discuss with the Wizard in private, so when Gandalf approaches him before he departs, Bilbo assumes that is the reason.

But Gandalf just squints at him, unapologetic and stoic. “You’ve changed, Bilbo Baggins. You’re not the same Hobbit as the one who left the Shire.”

Bilbo feels like snorting. Of course he isn’t. When he’d left the Shire he wasn’t a Hobbit suffering from a deadly disease. That isn’t even the full extent of his change; he’s learnt to fight, he’s killed, and he’s seen all kinds of marvels, apart from falling in love with the most important member of Dwarven royalty.

“I was going to tell you,” he feels compelled to say, for some reason. It’s like the Wizard is pulling the truth out of him by simply looking him in the eye. He finds himself toying with the ring in his pocket, twisting it between two fingers. “I… found something in the Goblin tunnels,” he confesses, avoiding the topic of the flower sickness.

“Found what? What did you find?”

But Bilbo is tired of revealing his secrets, of Gandalf seeing through him and acting as though he knows every nook and cranny of Bilbo’s mind. No, he already divulged an important secret, he’d rather keep this one to himself. It’s well within his rights. “My courage,” he says, shakily, and it feels as though he breaks free from Gandalf’s truth-demanding thrall.

“Good. Well, that’s good. You’ll need it,” the Wizard tells him knowingly, an odd twinkle in his eyes. His head jerks to the left, the rugged end of his pointy hat directed exactly toward… Thorin. Because, of course, he’s Gandalf.

Bilbo’s blood starts simmering with frustration. His eyes had followed the tilt of Gandalf’s head, and he watches how Thorin sets his pony free, seemingly distraught by the buckles of his satchel, before meeting Gandalf’s amused gaze.

“Why did you have to tell them?” he whispers harshly through his teeth.

Gandalf purses his lips. “Now, now, Bilbo. You know exactly why.”

Bilbo really doesn’t. But does Gandalf ever speak plainly? He shouldn’t be surprised anymore by the Wizard’s irritating speech patterns.

 _You know exactly why_. What in Yavanna’s holy name is that supposed to mean? He doesn’t know why, he just knows that he was put in an extremely uncomfortable position, that Gandalf had gambled with his life when he knows that rejection would mean death, and that he had to endure a serious breach of privacy. The fact that it has worked out in Bilbo’s favour, deepening his friendship with the Dwarves, is another matter entirely. It’s the only good thing that came out of that evening.

Did Gandalf think that Bilbo needed a push of sorts? That he’d confess his love for Thorin right then and there and adopt a “come what may” sort of mindset? He’d never act like that, and Gandalf knows him well enough to be aware of it. Besides, there is no way, absolutely _none_ , that Thorin wouldn’t reject him on the spot. Sure, the Dwarf isn’t completely heartless and now that he has knowledge of Bilbo’s condition he wouldn’t be cruel, but that is by no means tantamount to the reciprocation Bilbo needs to fend off the disease. He would have died by now, if he’d chosen to confess the truth in its entirety. Surely, Gandalf must be aware of that.

Gandalf is many things, but a demented matchmaker isn’t one of them. So, clearly, he must know something that Bilbo doesn’t, for him to speak out of place in Bilbo’s stead. He refuses to let hope burrow itself in his head, he has no need for it and it could only worsen his state. He’s left with burning curiosity, with a need to know Gandalf’s motivation, but he doesn’t get the chance to further press for answers, because the Wizard steps away, heading toward his horse and delivering instructions for their passage through the sickly forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know this chapter is rather short and lacking the mutual pining you guys are craving. If you found this chapter inconsistent, I promise the next one will satisfy your wishes, since it will be from Thorin's POV ;)
> 
> Hope y'all have a great weekend :D Please don't hesitate to leave a comment below if you feel like it!


	8. Out of Reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The exchange between the meddlesome Wizard and the Halfling had captured his attention, in spite of his great effort not to eavesdrop. In fact, much of everything pertaining to the Halfling has had his attention inexplicably in the past few weeks._
> 
> _Well, perhaps not quite inexplicably._
> 
> (A distracted Thorin finds himself shamelessly eavesdropping, more than once. A late night encounter brings a welcomed change to the dynamic between him and the Halfling.)

Out of all the places he’s seen in his nomad life—many, but not one of them worthy of comparison with Erebor—Mirkwood is the foulest.

His Dwarven blood protests at the sight of the forest. His race is meant to thrive underneath stone, they’re not built to wander freely under the sky. But now, seeing that the wicked canopy shall offer no glimpse of the sun, nor the moon, he finds that the sky is much more desirable to have above his head.

They’ve yet to enter the great expanse of repulsive vegetation, and while his mind should be fully focused on the quest he’s leading, he finds himself distracted by something else entirely.

The exchange between the meddlesome Wizard and the Halfling had captured his attention, in spite of his great effort not to eavesdrop. In fact, much of everything pertaining to the Halfling has had his attention inexplicably in the past few weeks.

Well, perhaps not quite inexplicably.

The Wizard leaves, of course he does. But Thorin has learnt not to count on anybody else besides himself and his kin. He can manage by himself.

“Come on,” he presses his Company. “We must reach the Mountain before the sun sets on Durin’s Day. It is our only chance to find the hidden door,” he reminds them, stepping forward and leading them on the first tiles of the path.

He knows all too well that he has issues with orientation. One of the flaws he’d rather not admit about himself. Not that he’s ashamed of it, Dwarves only need to navigate stone tunnels, not poorly-designed and confusing paths. He remembers how he got lost twice on the way to Bag End, having to explain himself and blaming Hobbitish infrastructure, when his own sense of direction had failed him. He’d rather not fail at following this forest path.

He wants to prove he’s a good leader. A first he’s confused as to why this urge has surfaced, when he has already won the allegiance and loyalty of his Dwarves, who’d willingly lay down their lives for him. But as he looks behind his shoulder to make sure that everyone has followed, and his eyes rest upon the frail frame of the Hobbit, he knows that it’s the Halfling he wants to impress.

He tries not to think of it, and he succeeds for the better part of the day, although he is vaguely bothered by having to lead the group. He should have eyes only for the forest path, but he profusely dislikes not knowing the Halfling’s exact position in the row of Dwarves. He tells himself that it’s because he knows the burglar is the weakest link in their chain, a link that must be protected at all times.  

Fighting against his instinct is not something in his nature, so he can’t help but look behind when the sound of coughing travels to his ears. A grievous mistake on his part, because seeing Baggins cough so hard that his small body shakes and tremors has Thorin immediately stopping the Company to rest, not even a good couple of hours after their departure.

His sister-sons are immediately at the Halfling’s side, offering their assistance to their burglar. He finds that he wishes to comfort the Hobbit as well, but he knows that it is not his place to do so. Instead, he frowns deeply as he watches them from afar, stomach turning with an odd feeling. He urges the Company back on their feet as soon as the coughing fit fades.

The Halfling’s disease is, naturally, a source of great mystery to him, even though Óin did his best to explain it. The healer himself fails to grasp the way in which the affliction works, so his curiosity isn’t quite satisfied. Ever since the night in Beorn’s barn, it has been nagging at him, and the only way to find out more is to ask the Hobbit himself.

Reparations have been made between him and the burglar, and he’d apologised for his narrow-mindedness. Their embrace on the Carrock—it felt like quenching a thirst that Thorin hadn’t even known he had. Before the Hobbit jumped between him and Azog’s Wargs, he’d thought him to be the softest of creatures, a liability and nothing more. He regrets the cruelty and disdain that fuelled his attitude toward Baggins, and there shall be none of it in the future, he has made a vow to himself. The shame and guilt that have taken their place, however, prevent him from approaching the Hobbit with the sentiment of friendship, a sentiment he would very much like to instil in them both.

His attempts to show concern were dismissed by the Hobbit, as they had been received in the light of his previous treatment of him. He’d known that the Halfling is sickly, his constant coughing was proof of it and it was one of the reasons why Thorin thought he’d be useless on the journey, but learning that it is the sign of a dangerous sickness had distressed him. Especially after their conciliation on the Carrock.

He suspects his concern would not be well-received, along with his friendship—his shameful prior behaviour has seen to that. So, he must be satisfied with taking care in whichever way he can of the Hobbit’s health from afar. It’s not his place to ask. He should put his curiosity to rest and be content with what little he knows.

It’s not much, but the way he sees and interprets the facts has him shuddering, for some reason. The Hobbit has a One back home, and the distance and unfulfillment of the bond are slowly killing him.

Thorin is…confused. He doesn’t quite know what to think of it. Should he blame himself for not providing a clause related to the matter in the contract, for not informing himself before plucking the Hobbit away from home? But he didn’t force the Hobbit to come along, he has no fault in this. Then, should he chastise the Hobbit, for leaving behind a precious One, even if it’s none of his business? Should he be illogically angered at this so-called One for daring to refuse their burglar?

He knows naught of her—him, perhaps?—so he cannot speculate. But it would be clear even to the blindest and deafest of Dwarves that Baggins suffers greatly. And, if Thorin has understood Óin correctly, the Hobbit shall fade and perish because of One’s rejection. His blood boils with anger that he should not even feel. This Hobbit, whoever she or he might be, does not deserve Baggins’ heart.

Why would this Hobbit refuse Baggins in the first place? Even he can see Baggins’ appeal, and he’s a Dwarf! The Halfling can obviously provide, Bag End is quite a luxurious home, even by Dwarven standards. That mop of curly hair is not displeasing, and Thorin finds that the lack of beard isn’t off-putting, and neither are his slight plumpness and intriguingly hairy feet. The pointed ears first reminded Thorin of his sworn enemies, the Elves, but in time he has noticed that their shape differs greatly from the Elves’.

He is also thoughtful, brave, highly intelligent, with an enjoyable sense of humour. Thorin had pretended not to hear the laughter that often erupted among the Dwarves whenever the Hobbit shared a witty point of view, before Baggins had proven himself, but now it annoys him for some reason. It’s like an itch that he cannot scratch, that has been there his entire life, unnoticed and quiet until he stepped foot in Bag End for the first time.

An itch that is also present whenever Thorin hears that awful coughing, and his insides twist unpleasantly. Whenever the Hobbit stops to gingerly pick some plant, smiling to himself and humming. Whenever he sighs in his sleep, turning in his bedroll and distracting Thorin from his watch. Whenever Thorin catches glimpses of that curly blond hair, turned into precious gold by the playful sunrays.

It’s no use denying that this itch is causing his distraction, when his entire attention should be directed toward the quest, undivided. It’s unbecoming, he cannot allow it. He hates himself for it, for the way in which the Hobbit is burrowing himself under Thorin’s skin. He’d directed his hate toward the Hobbit in the beginning, blaming him, but now he’s ashamed of his cowardly thoughts. The Halfling has no fault in this.

He knows, deep down, the true meaning of this itch. But he can’t bring himself to admit it—he can’t be distracted from his purpose. It’s no use admitting it, after all, anyway.

* * *

 

He’s the rightful King Under the Mountain. He’s well above eavesdropping. But when it provides the only way to keep himself updated on the Halfling’s wellbeing, he finds that he has no choice but to refer to such pastimes.

His jaw clenches uncomfortably when he hears Balin educating the Hobbit on the topic of Dwarven Ones, the second evening after their departure from Beorn’s. Balin covers their strict monogamy, the strong bonds, the courting rituals, the sanctity of having a One. He tells Baggins of the decades they spend waiting for the One, of the pull they feel. He describes it as the ultimate gift from Mahal to his children, the happiness and blessing of finding your other half and sharing everything you are and have with them being above any other worldly feeling.

“That must be…” Baggins begins to say after Balin finishes his vivid depiction. He trails off, unable to find an adjective, and he coughs violently.

“Aye,” Balin says quietly, eyeing the Hobbit with a sympathetic look.

“Did you ever find yours?” Baggins asks curiously. He tries to inconspicuously wipe the hand he used to stifle his coughing on his trousers, but Thorin doesn’t miss the movement and the faint trail of blood it leaves behind on the material. The angry grind of Thorin’s jaw makes his temples hurt with tension.

Balin tells him of his One, but Thorin tunes him out. He’s torn between further listening and delving deep into his mind, to find his own pull and heed it. He starts to sharpen his sword instead, giving his hands something to do and willing his thoughts away. But his attention is drawn back to the conversation happening across the camp, once Kíli joins in, cheerfully.

“I feel the pull too, quite strongly nowadays! I can tell she’s near and I just can’t wait to meet her,” his young nephew says dreamily, only for Fili to cuff him playfully on the head.

The Halfling’s laughter echoes brightly through the camp, like the sweet ringing of a crystal bell. Thorin ignores his own visceral reaction.

It’s not long before more Dwarves chip in the discussion, sharing tales about their own Ones, joyous and tragic alike. Thorin continues sharpening his sword, pretending he isn’t listening. Dwalin joins him, maintaining his own axes as throws judgemental stares at the other Dwarves from time to time. Thorin is glad for the quiet companionship.

He doesn’t really realise that he’s over-sharpening the blade, dulling the edges with every swipe of the whetstone, not until Dwalin stills his arm with an amused snort. Without the screeching noises of the whetstone against his sword, his ears immediately find something else to focus on, namely the still lively talk on the other side of the camp.

“As about Uncle, well, we don’t quite know,” Fíli says to the Halfling, the two of them carrying a separate conversation from the other Dwarves. “Since he never mentions his One, we’ve supposed that they must’ve died and that Thorin never met them. Most likely during the Battle of Azanulbizar; we lost many, many lives that day.”

Thorin’s breath stills, fingers grasping the whetstone tightly. He doesn’t know how to interpret the soft “oh” that comes from the Hobbit.

“Oi, Master Baggins! Why don’t you tell us how courting goes in your Shire?” Glóin asks, preventing the Halfling and his nephew from further discussing something that is none of their business. He’ll have to reprimand Fíli later, for gossiping idly about his king and uncle.

And so Baggins begins to talk of flower crowns and dancing, of gifts and baked goods. He avoids talking of his own One, he keeps it impersonal, yet detailed. There’s a faint smile tugging at his lips as he talks, interrupted every now and then by his coughing.

Thorin gets up, straightening his back. He steps toward the edge of the camp, sheathing his sword and letting the blade whistle as the edges brush against the scabbard. The sound makes the Hobbit’s storytelling pause briefly.

It’s getting late. He should take first watch.

* * *

 

Later that night, he can tell by the constant rustling of cloth that one member of the Company is restless. He doesn’t quite know if the end of his watch has come, Mirkwood’s canopy does not allow moonlight to shine. The camp is cold and dark, he hadn’t allowed his Company to start a fire, for fear of being discovered by the forest’s inhabitants. He can sympathise with whoever Dwarf is being kept awake by the conditions of their camp.

The snap of a twig has his head darting toward the edge of the camp. His hand flies to the handle of his sword, starting to pull it slowly from its sheath. A muffled cough follows, coming from the same direction, and Thorin’s eyes search and count the bedrolls. One of them is empty.

He wakes up Dwalin by kicking gently at his back, gesturing at him to take second watch, then he tracks down the missing member of his Company, guided by the stifled coughs that grow in intensity. He finds the Hobbit about one hundred paces further down the path, hunched over himself, a hand clinging to the trunk of a tree.

In spite of the dim light, Thorin can distinguish the bloody petals that have fallen at his feet.

“You should not stray this far from camp, Master Baggins,” he says, approaching the Halfling.

Baggins yelps, tumbling backward. Thorin reaches out and catches him by one sleeve, helping him regain his balance.

“My apologies, it was not my intention to startle you,” Thorin tells him, guilt making him wince at his brutish approach. He doesn’t yet let go of the Hobbit’s sleeve.

“I was just… I didn’t want to wake anyone up with my coughing, I’m sorry—” the Halfling justifies himself penitently, hiding his eyes from Thorin’s.

Thorin wants to kick himself. “I’d rather have you wake up the entire camp than wander away from the path and fall prey to whatever beasts call this wretched forest home.” The mere idea has his blood boiling.

The Hobbit breaks into another fit of coughing, clutching again at the tree trunk. A surge of protectiveness takes over Thorin, and before he can stop himself, he’s at the Halfling’s side, offering his arm and placing the other hand between Baggins’ shoulder blades, in a touch he hopes is soothing.

To his inane satisfaction, the Hobbit steps away from the tree trunk, choosing to support himself on Thorin’s arm. The grip of his hand on Thorin’s vambrace speaks volumes of his suffering, making Thorin move his other palm tentatively in circles on the Hobbit’s back.

His chest pangs as he watches a couple more petals join the ones on the forest floor. The Hobbit gags weakly, in a way that reminds Thorin of the way in which his nephews had suffered from the stomach flu as young Dwarflings. He closes his arm protectively around the Halfling’s shoulders, wishing there was more he could do.

Bitter disappointment fills him when the Hobbit steps away from him a minute later, once his fit stops and he can breathe more easily.

“Thank you, Master Oakenshield,” Baggins says feebly, as he takes a step back. He wipes at the corners of his mouth, thumb shining with droplets of blood, then he clears his throat. His eyes still avoid Thorin’s. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Please call me Thorin,” he blurts out, bothered by the distant way in which the Halfling had addressed him. “You need not apologise, I wish I could be of more assistance to you.”

“I—uh…” The Hobbit seems at a loss for words. “Call me Bilbo, as well, if it pleases you.”

It pleases Thorin greatly. “If there is anything in my power, anything at all that you require, do not hesitate to ask. My Dwarves and I are at your service.”

The Halfling— _Bilbo_ —finally looks him in the eye. “Thank you, Thorin. I promise I will not let my condition interfere with my purpose in the Company. You have my word that I will carry out my part of the contract accordingly, and that I shan’t be a burden.”

Something fierce comes alight within Thorin—shame, respect, and concern, mixed with a dozen other feelings. He’d hate for the journey to further endanger Bilbo’s health, but he has no say in the matter. Bilbo is not his subject, and the contract is the only tie between the two of them. This delicate being, tormented by such a harrowing affliction should not face the perils of this quest. He’d much rather send the Hobbit back to his home, but it’s too late now, he won’t make it to the Shire alone.

He places a guiding hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Come. I’ll see you back to camp.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here is a lengthier chapter from Thorin's POV! :D  
> Hope you enjoyed it, and that you won't forget to leave your thoughts below ;)


	9. The Mind and the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _On the one hand, it’s Mirkwood’s air that makes it hard for Bilbo to breathe. On the other hand, it’s Thorin. But that comes as no surprise._
> 
> (Bilbo's mind and heart are at odds. Thorin's behaviour further instigates this battle.)

On the one hand, it’s Mirkwood’s air that makes it hard for Bilbo to breathe. On the other hand, it’s Thorin. But that comes as no surprise.

It’s not the same as after the moment on the Carrock, no. That was acceptance, a truce, and it had brought relief. But this? Thorin’s newfound attention and worry? It’s a double-edged sword of sorts.

It’s… well, it’s _nice_ to be on the receiving end of Thorin’s consideration. It began manifesting after that evening at the start of their incursion in the forest, when they began addressing each other much less formally. To begin with, he makes the Company come to a halt whenever Bilbo’s symptoms act up, making sure Óin tends to him properly. That alone is enough for the coughing to alleviate.

He also makes sure that Bilbo’s bedroll is right in the centre of their camp, providing not only the warmth that comes from being surrounded by sturdy Dwarves, but also protection. The nights get truly frigid in Mirkwood, and since they don’t light fires for fear of being discovered, Bilbo appreciates the placement. And if that isn’t enough already, he constantly asks if Bilbo has eaten enough, checking to see if he’s finished his ration at the end of every day.

It’s not that nice when he remembers why Thorin is being considerate, and that’s when he finds himself coughing up petal after petal as Thorin frowns worriedly at him. The concern isn’t for Bilbo personally, it’s for the Company’s safety, and for the condition of its burglar. He cannot allow Thorin’s kindness to infuse hope within him because the nature of Thorin’s sentiment has nothing in common with Bilbo’s, no matter how much Bilbo wishes it would.  

Bilbo’s internal battle between reason and feeling becomes even more muddled as they advance through the forest and its fumes create troubling confusion in his head. He’s not the only one, the Dwarves also get frustrated at their disorientation.

It gets worse after they cross the enchanted stream that Gandalf had warned them about. As if it isn’t enough that Bombur, their cook and the one who weighs the most, had fallen into a deep sleep because of it, they also lose sight of the path. They go around in circles for days on end, cursing the ill forest as they struggle to carry Bombur. Thorin is noticeably on edge, snapping at everyone who dares challenge his orders with rough tones and words.

They haven’t bathed since they left Beorn’s almost two weeks ago and as the dirt and leaves stick to their clothes and bodies in the most despicable way, Bilbo thinks that the Dwarven King looks like a mighty untamed beast, all matted and wild hair, dirt streaking his royal features. It’s rather unfair, Bilbo whines to himself, skin itching awfully because of the filth and grime tainting it. They get used to the smell that surrounds their camp at night, even though they all sigh and dream of hot baths and purifying steams.

Because Bombur has yet to wake up, Thorin has entrusted Bilbo with the task of cooking. Bilbo’s chest swells proudly when he eagerly accepts the task, and he gives his very best every night to provide the Company with a hot meal, even though the food they got from Beorn is starting to dwindle and he doesn’t have much to work with.

His efforts are most appreciated, however. The Dwarves all have something kind to say about the thin stew he whips up the first night he cooks, Thorin included. And Thorin has never commented or complained about the food, not once in those three months of travel. It does wonders for Bilbo’s ego, proving that he can be of good use and worthy of praise. Not to mention that a compliment coming from Thorin in this trying time, when he’s constantly irritable, is a precious achievement. Bilbo’s heart lurches treacherously in his chest when Thorin sketches the faintest of smiles when Bilbo collects his emptied bowl afterwards. He blushes to the roots of his hair, ducking his head into his shoulder to hide it like a swooning fauntling.  

He throws up no less than five petals that night, but Bilbo thinks his suffering isn’t that unbearable, not when Thorin shows worry and immediately commands Óin to assist Bilbo, even though the healer is already at Bilbo’s side. Afterwards, Thorin awkwardly sits by Bilbo, their shoulders brushing together. Bilbo had been shivering with cold, but his blood immediately heats up and flows quickly in his veins, a reaction not necessarily caused by the warmth that emanates from Thorin’s body but by his mere proximity.

“Are you in great pain? Shall I have Óin brew you more tea?” Thorin asks quietly after a few uncomfortable minutes of silence.

“No, no, it’s all right, thank you,” Bilbo replies quickly, voice hoarse from coughing. He’d already drunk two cups today, and Óin’s stash of herbs is starting to run low, but he’s touched by Thorin’s inquiry. He shudders inadvertently when he notices that the Dwarf’s eyes are glued to the forest floor, looking pointedly at the petals at Bilbo’s feet that he’d thrown up earlier.

Thorin must’ve thought that it’s the cold that plagues Bilbo, and before the Hobbit can protest, Thorin shrugs off his fur coat and places it on Bilbo’s shoulders without a single word. Then he gets up and walks away without looking behind, announcing he’ll take first watch again.

The coat, Bilbo first notices, smells extremely pleasant, in spite of having been through many ordeals that should have turned it into disgusting rags. It’s warm and soft, reminding Bilbo of that afternoon on the Carrock, making him relieve the hug over and over again as he tugs at the fur, adjusting the coat around his frame. It’s much too big for him, and he flushes when he becomes aware that the Company had witnessed Thorin’s gesture and now they all watch him with curiosity.

He falls asleep with the coat wrapped tightly around him, burying his smile in its collar and breathing in Thorin’s scent. He returns it to its rightful owner in the morning, offering his thanks. The pang of regret at losing the comforting coat is worth the excuse to approach and interact with the King.

A week after the stream incident—a week they’ve spent trying to find the path again, falling prey to the forest’s enchantments, fighting amongst themselves, hearing voices and hallucinating—Bilbo gets the idea of climbing a tree in search of uncorrupted air and a better viewpoint. Feeling the sun and wind on his skin again is like waking up from the deepest of slumbers. Just a few seconds of it, and it’s enough for him to figure out where they are, chasing away the fog Mirkwood had placed on his senses.

His glee is, unfortunately, replaced with anxiety when no one below replies to his announcement. He missteps and falls in his hurry to find out what’s happened, luckily clinging onto a branch that breaks his fall. That’s when he notices the eight pairs of eyes wickedly watching and approaching, and he lets go with a frightened shout.

* * *

At first, he’s mesmerized and relieved to see the Wood Elves, slaying the spiders that had attacked them with unparalleled with grace and skill. But then he realises that those aren’t like Elrond and his kin, remembering what he has read about them. It was foolish him to believe that they would receive help from them.

His heart nearly stops beating in his chest when a dozen archers have Thorin and the Company surrounded, sharp arrows pointed at them. One of them—the leader, Bilbo supposes—threatens Thorin fiercely, drawing his bow even further and pointing the arrow right at Thorin’s head. It takes Bilbo a great amount of control not to jump out from where he’d hid in a cheap attempt to defend his friends, and he holds himself back knowing that he’d only be captured himself. He hopelessly lingers to the shadows as his friends are forced to submit, then searched and bound with rope, only to be dragged into the Elven realm where no doubt they would be thrown into cells for trespassing.

Overwhelmed by fatigue and disgust after the fight with the spiders, he follows them with the ring still on his finger, barely managing to sneak into the palace before the doors slide shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay! I have no real excuse for it :( But I hope the chapter is enjoyable nonetheless! Comments are always appreciated <3


	10. Trusted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Thorin?” Bilbo whispers again, a bit louder.  
>  The Dwarf flinches, but gets up quickly, approaching the bars of his cell.  
> “What news do you bring, Halfling?” he asks, voice making a rasping sound._
> 
> (Bilbo's condition worsens, as he tries to find a way to free his friends from the Elvenking's prison. Thorin chooses to trust him.)

He muffles his coughing into the crook of his elbow, body shaking hard as he tries to repress it. His thorax is constantly under strain, on fire. It’s taken him days to devise this plan, and now that luck is on his side, he will not fail. He cannot fail.

He’s lost count of the days he’s spent sneaking about, stealing leftovers from the palace kitchens so he wouldn’t starve, sleeping in cold and damp places, and gathering as much intelligence as he can. A few weeks, maybe? It’s not as though he could have kept count of the days that pass anyway, the palace is always awake—he has hardly slept more than two candlemarks at once, unable to rest properly for fear of being discovered.

The ring on his finger makes him uneasy, in spite of the great advantages it provides. Yes, it grants him invisibility and the ability to understand Sindarin perfectly, but he constantly hears other voices that he cannot distinguish, dark whispers and shadows that cloud his senses. Every time he falls asleep with the ring on, he has vivid nightmares, and he wakes up feeling even more tired.

He must act tonight.

They keep Thorin deeper in the dungeon, isolated from the others. It had taken Bilbo days to find the place, at first. He’d thought he went insane when he counted over and over again the cells in which the Company are being kept. Twelve, only twelve. When he dared to step closer, to see who is missing, his heartbeat leapt. Scenarios invaded his head, crippling him with panic. He had to stop, throwing up petal after petal in one damp corner of the dungeon, as silently as he could. Had they killed Thorin? His entire body shook at the idea. Was he being tortured for information? He’d heard the mercurial Dwarf’s shouts and insults when he was first taken to see the Elvenking. Had that been Thorin’s end?

But then he noticed the guard that had delivered the Dwarves’ only meal for that day, advancing deeper into the dungeon with an extra thirteenth portion. Bilbo followed him through the damp labyrinth of cells, barely holding back a cry of relief when he recognized Thorin, who sneered and swore in harsh Khuzdul at the guard.

He visited Thorin a couple of times, carrying messages between him and the other Dwarves: vows to keep silent about their quest.

“You are our only hope,” Thorin had told him when Bilbo first revealed himself to him.

“I’ll get you out, I promise,” Bilbo had vowed with determination. When he left the dungeon, finding a relatively safe place to rest, he threw up a fully-bloomed iris. He almost fainted afterward, from exertion and stress. Tears had welled in his eyes as he’d suffocated in an attempt to cough it up soundlessly. He wiped them with frustration, the wetness making the dirt on his face itch uncomfortably. He crunched the flower up in his fist, reducing it to a paste of blue that stained his palm. He couldn’t be weak, he refused to let the sickness interfere with his mission.

It had worsened, of course it has. The pressure, the tiredness, the lack of fresh air and sun, they’d all contributed. He doesn’t have Óin’s tea anymore, and the constant thought of his friends being kept unjustly as prisoners, of Thorin rotting away in the darkest and coldest of dungeons, barely fed and daily taken to the Elvenking for questioning, has his lungs spasming helplessly.  

But if it all goes accordingly, in a few hours freedom will be theirs—it’s the only thing that keeps Bilbo going. He should let Thorin know of his plan, so he makes his way down to the dungeons, a path he’s begun to know by heart. He sneaks by the guards, stepping slowly and holding his breath to avoid detection. He dares to take off his ring only once he’s out of sight and earshot from both guards and other prisoners.

“Thorin?” he whispers, approaching the King’s cell.

Thorin sits motionlessly on the edge his cot, hands resting at his sides, palm up and fingers twitching. His back is against the wall, head thrown back as he looks at the ceiling, leaving his throat exposed while his hair falls on his shoulders.

“Thorin?” Bilbo whispers again, a bit louder.

The Dwarf flinches, but gets up quickly, approaching the bars of his cell.

“What news do you bring, Halfling?” he asks, voice making a rasping sound.

Bilbo takes in the King’s sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. He can’t tell much in the dim light of the dungeon, but he’s certain that Thorin looks worse than the last time Bilbo has been to his cell. His news can wait. He reaches out in his coat, pulling out half a loaf of bread and a fairly large chunk of cheese, freshly nicked from the kitchens, along with a filled waterskin. He pushes them through the bars, into the hands of a confused and amazed Thorin.

“Here, I figured they weren’t feeding you enough.”

Thorin’s face freezes into an unreadable expression. “I—you have my gratitude, Bilbo,” he says, hesitating for a couple of seconds, as he drinks in the sight of the fresh food in his hands. “Have you eaten yourself?” he then asks, directing a concerned look toward Bilbo.

Bilbo wants to laugh and shake his head in disbelief. He hasn’t seen guards bring Thorin food in three days at the very least, and now that the King finally has something to eat in his hands, his first thought is to ask Bilbo if he’s eaten? He hides the lower part of his face in the crook of his elbow, stifling a smile along with his coughing.

“Yes, I have!” he exclaims quietly, unable to hide his amusement. He hasn’t, really, not since last evening, but he’s stolen this food for Thorin specifically, knowing that the King will need his strength. “Come on, eat up, before the guards do their rounds.”

Thorin hesitates again, but he lowers himself to the ground as close to the bars as he can, setting the food in his lap and taking a long gulp of water first. Bilbo sits on the floor as well, shuffling close to the cell bars. Thorin tries to share the bread with him, but Bilbo refuses and smiles again. He watches fondly as the King eats dignifiedly with slow and small bites, in spite of his obvious gnawing hunger. He uses this time to tell Thorin what he’d heard the guards saying, and that he will attempt the free the Dwarves this very evening. He keeps the second part of his plan to himself, however.

“I came to warn you, so you’d be prepared,” Bilbo explains himself. ‘And so you know that if I don’t come to free you tonight, they’ve caught me, and you can no longer count on me,’ he thinks, apprehension settling in his bones.

Thorin, who’d finished eating and is now wiping his hands on his breeches, grins faintly, the twitch of his lips partly disguised by his beard. “You never cease to surprise me.” He curls his fingers around the bars of the cell, slouching closer than before.

Bilbo’s skin flushes with heat. He unconsciously begins wheezing, sign of an impending coughing fit. Again, he presses the inside of his elbow against the lower part of his face, squishing his cheeks between his arm and forearm. He extends his other arm forward, seeking support—he grabs at a bar and squeezes tightly, forcing his coughs to be silent. But it’s no use, and he chokes loudly, gasping for air.

“Hush, Bilbo, they’ll hear you,” Thorin whispers, his large hand slipping through the tight bars to grasp Bilbo’s wrist. His thumb brushes once, twice, against the skin of Bilbo’s forearm.

Bilbo’s coughing stills at the gentle touch, his chest swelling with another sort of pain. It’s the first time another being has touched him in the past weeks, and the warmth of Thorin’s skin against his own knocks out all air from his lungs. He sighs, leaning in and removing the other arm from his mouth. His head rests against the cold metal of the bars, and he can’t help but look at where Thorin’s hand had moulded around his wrist. It helps draw his attention away from the metallic taste in his mouth, but it’s not long before his nausea returns.

Thorin’s gesture had revealed the Dwarf’s own wrist, the sleeve of his rugged tunic having remained stuck behind the bars. The skin there is violently bruised red and purple, torn in some spots—the unmistakable marks of rope burn. Bilbo wonders if the King had suffered any other kind of mistreatment when he’d been taken for questioning, and his blood runs cold.

He takes in a breath that is supposed to be deep, but it turns into a broken stutter of his lungs. He removes his forehead from the cell bars, only to meet Thorin’s worried gaze. Sharp blue eyes search his face attentively, and Bilbo quickly wipes at the corner of his mouth where he knows a trickle of blood must have escaped. He gags, unable to hold himself back, bothered by the eyes pinned on him.

He almost doesn’t feel the way in which Thorin wraps his hand even tighter around Bilbo’s wrist, squeezing in a comforting way. He chokes, the sound echoing painfully loudly through the dungeon. The iris travels up his throat, wetting his eyes and suffocating him slowly as it makes its way out. He throws it up and shudders, realising what he has just done. His eyes rest on it for the briefest of seconds, watching it unfold where it’d fallen on the floor between Bilbo’s knees.

He hadn’t realised before how close he and Thorin are now, separated by only by the bars of the cell. One of Bilbo’s knees is touching Thorin’s shin, filling the space between two bars. The flower had fallen just millimetres away from that spot.

Bilbo draws back, pulling his hand back from where Thorin is still holding it, forcefully and swiftly, as though bitten by a snake. He scurries on his feet.

“I’m sorry, I—I hadn’t meant to—” he tries to convey, embarrassed and ashamed by how disgusting must’ve been for Thorin to watch _that_. To touch him. “I should go, the guards—I’ll return later,” he blabbers, his entire body burning with humiliation. He reaches into the cell and grabs the emptied waterskin from the floor, almost stumbling in the process.

A stunned Thorin gets up as well. “Wait!” he whisper-shouts. It makes Bilbo stop before he can bolt, fuelled by his shame.

“Are you all right?” Thorin asks and Bilbo’s heart pangs.

“I’ll be fine.” He keeps his eyes firmly glued to the ground, avoiding Thorin’s. “I must go.” He steps away, eager to leave.

“Bilbo.”

And like that, he stills his steps, as it’s impossible to resist whatever that voice commands.

“Have a care, would you?”

Bilbo inhales sharply, freezing. He can barely nod, not knowing how else to respond to Thorin’s display of concern, not knowing what to think of it. Hiding in the shadows, he slips the ring back on.

 

* * *

 

Thorin paces his cell restlessly, stopping every once in a while to eye the flower outside the door of his cell.  It’s taunting him. He can’t explain it, but it does.

Not long after Bilbo’s departure, he lowers himself on the floor and slides his hand through the bars, picking it up with as much care as he can manage. It lies lifelessly, looking incredibly tiny in his broad palm, rumpled petals stained with blood sticking to his skin. He moves around the cell, looking for a spot where the penumbra is weaker, so he can study it better.

It’s blue, a soft blue, as far as he can tell in the pale light, which only makes the contrast with the blood starker. He doesn’t know much about flowers, nor does he care about such things, but as he inspects this particular one, he regrets not knowing its breed, or its name.

It has a name, doesn’t it? It must have.

Bah, he’s a Dwarf. Dwarves can name every type of metal or stone on Middle-Earth. Along with their uses, for metals, and meaning, for gemstones. But flowers? What is the point in knowing the name of _flowers_ , out of all things? Óin knows some, as it is his trade, but he hadn’t known the sort of flower that grows in Bilbo’s lungs.

But Bilbo likes flowers, he can tell. He’s seen his garden back in the Shire. He’d noticed the look on Bilbo’s face when he stops to pick one on the road.

‘ _Flowers_ ’, he scoffs disbelievingly.

He should at least know the name of the thing that brings the burglar both pain and joy. He almost crushes the flower in his palm in frustration. It’s not the first time he witnesses the Hobbit’s suffering, but this time, it had felt much more… He can’t really tell how it felt. But Bilbo’s pain had stirred suffering in Thorin as well.

He frowns, wiping the blood off one petal with the tip of his finger. He’s never quite felt conscious about the size of his hand or fingers, but now, as he struggles not to crush the flower, he thinks he’s not meant to handle delicate things. Bilbo’s blood dries on his finger, and his frown deepens.

This shade of blue, however… It reminds him of the colour of the House of Durin, and his jaw tightens at the thought.

He pockets the flower, not knowing what else to do with it.

He lies down on the uncomfortable cot, no longer hungry, no longer feeling the pressure of the quest’s impending failure. He tries not to think that it’s because he would trust Bilbo with his life, that he’s already doing so.

When Bilbo returns, hours later, a set of keys in his hands, and twelve freed Dwarves in tow, he’s not surprised, nor relieved beyond measure. He’d known Bilbo would come, he had no doubt. But there is some relief there, making his heart beat faster, and it doesn’t come from being released after weeks of imprisonment. No, it is directed at Bilbo’s success, at him not being caught.

He doesn’t question Bilbo’s plan when Bilbo leads them further down into the palace, instead of making for the exit above. His Dwarves do, however, and he hushes them, telling them to be quiet. The Hobbit knows the palace better than any of them. When they arrive in the cellars and Bilbo asks them to get into the empty barrels stacked there, the confusion of his Company increases, many of them questioning Bilbo’s reason.  

“Please, please. You _must_ trust me,” Bilbo pleads, when Dwalin protests against his plan. Bilbo lifts his gaze, searching for Thorin’s, asking wordlessly for approval, for trust, a hint of desperation in the tilt of his head. Thorin finds that he cannot deny his request.

“Do as he says,” he whisper-shouts at the Company. He then exchanges another look with Bilbo, furrowing his brow. He can tell that the Hobbit is proud of himself, proud of the trust he’d earned.

He gets inside his barrel without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angsty-smangsty jointed POV! :D  
> I know that in the movie it seems like the Company spent like, a day or even less being imprisoned, but in the book, they waste like, a month there, as demonstrated by this timeline. Even though I said I’d follow movie imagery and details, it felt logical (and extra angsty™) to imitate the book and a. prolong their stay in the dungeon, and b. make Thorin’s cell remoter ;)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please let me know what you thought below :D


	11. On the Point of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But he feels better than he did during their incursion into Mirkwood, considering that the sickness has progressed. He’s fine. He’s got to be fine, he’s got a hidden door to find, break into, and then a dragon to face. The fact that he’s dying will have to wait._
> 
> (A mental breakdown is the last thing that Bilbo needs right now.)

Compared to the harshness of Mirkwood’s nights, Laketown has the warmest of autumn eves. It’s the beginning of October, and yet the sunsets are late and bright, casting a mesmerizing gleam along the surface of the lake. Bilbo tugs at the blanket he’s enveloped himself in, pulling it tight around his shoulders and expecting the chill that will replace the gentleness of the late autumn sun.

He’s luckily found some time alone, a rare moment of privacy that ought to be cherished when traveling with thirteen noisy—and nosey—Dwarves. He snuck away after dinner to take a walk, first wandering about the closed market, then exploring the maze of docks and wharves, finally finding a quiet and desolate place to sit down and gather his thoughts. An old pier shielded from sight by an equally old warehouse. The wooden planks of the structure creak as he lowers himself, dangling his legs over and dipping his feet into the water. It’s not as cold as he expected, he notes with mild satisfaction.

Laketown is yet another marvel of Middle Earth. It’s no Rivendell, or Woodland palace, but for a settlement of Men, it is oddly charming. Obviously, the town has seen better decades, as Balin has told him. More almost two centuries ago, before Smaug’s attack, Dale, Esgaroth, and Erebor made up the North’s most prosperous area. Out of the three, only Laketown has prevailed, albeit scarcely so. They depend dearly on trade with the Woodland Realm and if it weren’t for that, Laketown would be bereft of all livelihood.

Not that they have much of it, anyway. Thranduil’s isolationist attitude doesn’t allow for much trade with small fishermen towns. And since that ghastly man who calls himself the Master of the town seems to keep all the gold to himself and his household, it’s not surprising that the people can barely afford to survive. No wonder they all welcomed Thorin and the Company with such hope in their eyes—the prospect of gold and riches is likely the only reason for their kindness.

Well, maybe not Bard. The Lakeman seems to wiser and more cold-headed than his fellow townsmen, but also inherently brave and good at heart. Bilbo can’t possibly imagine how they would have entered Laketown without the bargeman—they direly needed his help, if not his guts and wits. It was pure luck that it was he who was waiting for the barrels, and that he was willing to accept their money. The Dwarves may still treat him with suspicion, but Bilbo has nothing but respect for Bard. The Man deserves a better life than the one he’s currently living, and Bilbo can only hope that Thorin’s promise will be fulfilled as soon as possible, and that Bard and his lovely children will benefit from it.

They leave on the morn, and he thinks bitterly about the approaching departure. Laketown has been by far the most enjoyable part of the journey since Rivendell, their last respite after finally reaching the slopes of Erebor. It’s been almost half a year since he left the Shire behind, and he can’t really decide how he feels about it. Bag End and its comforts seem foreign to him now that he tries to recall what it felt like to take supper alone and read by the fireplace until sleepiness settled in his bones. It feels as though a lifetime has passed since he last did that, but at the same time those five months have flown by, came and went in the blink of an eye.

He wiggles his toes playfully on the surface of the water, creating echoing ripples. It’s been a whirlwind, it really has. Even though those few days spent in Laketown have been unwinding, especially after their misadventures in the Woodland Realm, Bilbo knows it’s only just the calm before the storm. If all goes well, in the following days he’ll face Smaug.

He only wishes the moment would come faster. He can feel his strength leaving him, day by day. After the duress of the escape from the Elvenking’s palace, he’s finding it hard to recover. The barrel ride left him with the nastiest of colds, which he’s still shaking off. It aggravated his coughing, and he felt too self-conscious to complain further to Óin, not when the old Dwarf was already doing his best. Óin did his best to cure his cold, even if Kíli had greater need of medical aid after being shot with that poisoned arrow.  

But he feels better than he did during their incursion into Mirkwood, considering that the sickness has progressed. He’s fine. He’s got to be fine, he’s got a hidden door to find, break into, and then a dragon to face. The fact that he’s dying will have to wait.

Yavanna, he’s truly _dying_. He feels the world tilt at the realisation, a visceral jolt making his entire body hiccup.

He doesn’t know if it’s because he never properly had the time to think about it, or because he couldn’t actually feel it yet, but it’s only just now that he palpably comprehends the extent of his situation. It’s ridiculous, he’s known all along. He’s known for months now.

He brings his hands to his face, clawing at the skin with his fingers, rubbing the palms against his cheeks. If he stays still, aware of every trembling in and out of his lungs, he can feel the flutter of petals, the quiet whistling of his obstructed breath, the slow blooming of new irises.

With a hitch that shocks his innards, it starts again—the heaving, the coughing, the retching. _Yes, you’re dying_ , the whole process seems to tell him. Agonizing moments later, he’s left looking at the blossom he’d thrown up, another five petals by its side. They float gently on the water line, close to where he’d dipped his toes in the lake.

It’s the first time that he properly feels his vitality waning, and he finds himself letting the tears that had welled up in his eyes fall and sobbing softly. He’s got no more willpower left to stop his self-pity, not when he’s finally understanding his predicament. Pressure builds inside him, and then everything goes numb, slowly, as if it’s gradually going to sleep. Until he’s methodically breathing in and out. Until his widened eyes are out of focus, his thoughts go quiet, and the buzzing in his ears ceases.

By the time he pulls himself back together, any traces of the sunset colours had vanished from the surface of the water, darkness beginning to envelop the town. He shivers in his blanket, watching the movement of clouds on the horizon that patiently reveals the full moon.

He registers the heavy steps on the wooden platform of the wharf one moment too late. He’s in no mood to be asked questions, and he would have liked nothing more than to slip on the ring and disappear, but now surely whoever is coming has already seen him. It’s likely a guard or a drunken Lakeman, he supposes, so he turns his head to look over his shoulder, ready to answer impending questions. His hand tightens over Sting’s handle, in case he needs to defend himself. But when the identity of the intruder is revealed to him, all he can do is purse his lips tightly into a line and slump in defeat. Of course.

Not even in a town full of Men, in the best-concealed corner he could find, is he able to hide from _him_.

“You strayed from us again.” His voice is low. Bilbo thinks it reflects chastisement, at first, but the piercing blue stare tells him it’s worry that laces the remark.

The Dwarf leans against the wooden wall of the warehouse, merely three feet away from Bilbo. “You were not easy to find,” he adds, when Bilbo says nothing. The Hobbit’s nostrils flare open, realising the underlying meaning of Thorin’s words. He doesn’t need protection, or unfounded worry! He just wants some privacy, is that too much to ask?

“Oh, relax, would you?” he asks, thinking he should have said, that’s because I didn’t want to be found. “Pretty sure I’m in no danger here.”

 _Go away,_ he almost wants to say _. Let me be. I’m **dying** , can’t I just get a moment of privacy? I just wanna think about it alone, isn’t it enough that everything is about you, always? Why must you haunt me _ _like this?_

In that moment, a bout of raucous laughter reaches their ears, coming from the unsavoury-looking tavern further down the docks. The dirty drunkards that have gathered there after sundown don’t look like pleasant or safe company. Bilbo doesn’t need to look at Thorin to know that he’s frowning in the direction of the tavern, Bilbo’s point therefore being proven moot.

It’s quiet between them for a while, but it makes no difference since the tension in the air speaks volumes nonetheless. Bilbo wonders if Thorin feels even a fraction of the pressure, of the self-consciousness. The silence demands to be broken. Yet Bilbo doesn’t dare look away from the water swaying gently at his feet.  

He coughs coarsely once, twice. The scent of crushed irises fills the cold air, as blood builds up on his tongue, the metallic taste making him wince. Thorin’s presence becomes even more bothersome, as does his stare that Bilbo feels burning at the nape of his neck.

The wood creaks, letting Bilbo know that Thorin is no longer leaning against the warehouse wall. A step, then another. Thorin clears his throat. Bilbo knows what he’s about to ask.

“Before you ask me for the umpteenth time this week, yes, Thorin, I’m all right,” he snaps. “And if I’m not, right now at least, I will be.”

He finds it hard to reel in the unexplainable wave of annoyance and irritation, threatening to turn into red anger that boils violently.

_I’m not all right. I know it. You know it. Stop asking. Stop. Just… **stop**._

Thorin doesn’t leave. Bilbo had expected him to leave. Guilt begins to gnaw at him, making him cough again.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I know you mean well.”

His mind carries him back to the night they attempted to break into the town armoury. They got caught, of course they got caught, and before Bilbo had realised what he was doing, he was vouching for Thorin’s character in front of an entire town. Ever since that night, things have changed between them, Thorin’s trust and gratitude feeding the gaping hole in Bilbo’s chest. Their tentative friendship is a source of warmth and comfort, keeping the disease at bay. It’s not enough, it will never be enough. But it’s there and Bilbo is an utter idiot for snapping at Thorin when the Dwarf simply shows concern for his safety.

The boards squeak again, shifting under a moving weight. Thorin is now closer, leaning against one of the jetty beams, arms folded against his chest. Bilbo looks at him sheepishly from the corner of his eye and his chest twinges with a sour ache. Thorin’s brows are softly furrowed, and the elegant line of his lips is pulled into a subtle pout. If Bilbo didn’t know any better, he’d say that such a look on the King’s face denotes vulnerability.

Thorin’s eyes, however, are fixed on something on the water right by the pier. Bilbo follows the direction of his gaze and—oh.

The iris, along with the five petals, had floated further away from the shore, following a moonlit path on the surface of the water and swaying gently.

“What kind of flower is it?” the Dwarf asks bluntly, still pointedly eyeing the iris. Its convoy of petals strays further and further away from the flower with each undulation of the water.  

Bilbo can’t help but smile sadly; he doesn’t quite know if he should laugh or be further saddened by Thorin’s inquiry. “It’s an iris. They symbolise respect, hope, and admiration in the flower language,” he replies, tilting his head up toward Thorin.

“It is a pity that something this beautiful must cause you grievous pain.”

Bilbo breathes in sharply, taken aback by Thorin’s words. He hadn’t expected that, not in the slightest—and he doesn’t really know how to interpret such a reply. It makes sense, though. What is Thorin, if not a leader with irrefutable logic and the gift of persuasive oratory?

He’s never thought of it this way. He’s got to admit, this is such a poetic way to go. The symbolism behind his disease is simply ridiculous. Not that it’s going to matter in the end. Because…

“That’s what love does, though, isn’t it?” Bilbo asks with a sad chuckle.

Thorin’s eyes shift away from the flower that has now floated too far to be properly admired. They settle upon Bilbo’s hunched body, the gaze hot and cold at the same time.

“Love is not supposed to hurt.” Thorin is serious, steely. Wide, clear eyes fix Bilbo with the deepest of stares, and something in Bilbo wilts away, a piercing numbness spreading slowly from the centre of his chest.

And yet, this weakness is welcomed, his body grows light, the pain fades. He feels as though he’s about to melt under Thorin’s intense stare. He doesn’t really know if Thorin is right again. He knows no other way to love. So he breaks the eye contact, ducking his head between his shoulders.

Thorin is older, much older than him. He surely knows more of love than Bilbo. The Hobbit now has half a mind to ask Thorin about his own knowledge of love. Such a statement must be loaded with meaning, fuelled by experience and memory. But then he realises he doesn’t truly want to hear of Thorin’s lovers. Or his One, Yavanna’s mercy. No, it would do more harm than good.

So, he sighs, standing up. It takes a lot of effort, his weak muscles protesting, and he hates himself for it.

“It’s getting late, we should head back,” he says, looking everywhere but at Thorin.

They’ve got a long boat ride tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay again ugh. Unfortunately, the following two Fridays will be updateless as well :( I'm going on a trip away and won't have the means to update the fic :(  
> I went again with the book timeline (it was already snowing in the movie during the Laketown part, but the book timeline says it's only just September) simply because I wanted Bilbo to have a cute moment with his big Hobbit toes in the lake :')  
> And, uh, sorry for the angst? Initially, this was supposed a fluffy-ish chapter, but then someone in the comments mentioned Bilbo's lack of actual mental breakdowns and, well, this happened... I might have overdone it a bit, but hey, Thorin did try to be soft and fluffy! Hope you enjoyed the drama! Let me know what you thought below :D


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